


The Mistress of Moonacre

by till_owlyglass



Category: The Little White Horse - Elizabeth Goudge, The Secret of Moonacre (2008)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-19 13:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 52,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/till_owlyglass/pseuds/till_owlyglass
Summary: When Catherine Merryweather returns to Moonacre upon the death of her mother, she learns that being the new Lady of the Manor is not easy! Between dealing with the colourful residents of Silverydew and fighting off regular De Noir kidnap attempts, Catherine must try to bond with her sullen brother Benjamin. And all while that arrogant boy from the forest refuses to leave her alone!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this story has been a work in progress on FanFiction.net for about about nine years, I think? I've always told myself that I'd come back and finish it because I always have ideas and characters in the back of my mind for this. I've uploaded it here to AO3 in the hopes that it'll spur me to work on it more regularly, rather than posting an update every two years! I doubt anyone will read this, but hey ho.

The little girl stood alone on balcony. It was late at night and the moon hung low in the sky with a thin mist blurring its edges, a thousand stars twinkled above her like tiny candles. After gazing up open-mouthed at the heavens for a moment, she clambered up barefoot onto the balcony rail and leant out as far as she could, squinting her eyes so as to try and see through the darkness towards the forest which grew right up to the high stone wall at the bottom of the garden. Would she see him again tonight?

A cool wind blew past her, making her white nightgown billow and her black curls quiver.

"Catherine Merryweather!" a voice behind her gasped. She turned to find her nurse-maid standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a disapproving glare.

"Get down at once young lady before you fall and break your neck!" the old woman ordered. Catherine rolled her eyes but hopped down anyway.

"You're barefoot!" the nurse tutted, "What will your mother say if you catch a cold?"

As the nurse ushered her into the house, Catherine glanced back at the garden with a regretful look then flounced back inside.

"Now, to bed with you, young lady!" the nurse said, pointing to the large four-poster bed with its gold silk sheets.

"But Benjamin and George get to stay up late." the little girl grumbled.

"Benjamin and George are not ten years old." the old woman replied firmly, "What were you doing out there so late anyway?"

"I…I can't tell you." Catherine mumbled.

"It's a secret is it?" the old woman raised an eyebrow, "Well, how about I tell you a bedtime story and maybe afterwards you may feel like telling me?" Catherine nodded enthusiastically. The old woman went and settled herself in an armchair by the fire.

"Come sit in front of me, Catkin. I will comb your hair." she said, picking up a silver comb from the table next to her. Catherine settled herself on a footstool in front of the old woman. Slowly and gently, the nurse began combing her hair, she pulled the dark corkscrew curls taut then released them, watching them spring back up into their original shape.

" _Once upon a perfect time,"_ the old nurse began, _"Many hundreds of years ago, when the old magic clung to Moonacre Valley, there was a young woman whose skin gleamed as pale as a star and whose heart was as pure as moonlight. Such was her bravery and goodness, she was beloved by Nature as if she were its own daughter. One fateful night, the moon blessed her with an extraordinary gift that would change the magic of the Valley forever-the Moon Pearls. From that day forth, she was known as the Moon Princess. Two ancient families lived in harmony at the edge of the Valley, sharing nature's bounty. Daughter of the De Noir clan, the Moon Princess fell deeply in love and was to be married to Sir Wrolf Merryweather."_

"Merryweather? Like me?" Catherine asked, turning around. The old woman merely gave her a vague smile and continued with the story.

" _Her father, Sir William De Noir, blessed the union by presenting the couple with a rare, black lion. In turn, Sir Wrolf gave his bride a unicorn, lured from the wild, white horses of the sea. Her heart overflowing with happiness, the Moon Princess revealed the magical pearls to both families. Legend told of their unique power, so strong the pearls would grant every wish, both good and evil. The Moon Princess truly believed in the goodness of all, but the men soon revealed the greed that was in their hearts, each desperate to claim the power of the pearls for himself. Betrayed by those she loved the most, the Moon Princess unleashed the power bestowed upon her, and cast a terrifying curse over them all. The Moon Pearls vanished that day, and where to find them remains a secret to this very day."_

The old woman finished her tale and returned the comb to its place on the table. By now, Catherine was leaning back dozily against the nurse's knees, her eyelids were heavy and half-closed.

"What happened to the pearls?" she asked sleepily.

"Some say that the De Noirs stole them and others say that it was the Merryweathers, but no one knows for certain, my dear." the old woman replied, "Goodness! Look at the time! If your mother found out you were up so late she'd dismiss me!" The nurse gathered the drowsy girl into her arms.

"Do you think maybe I could grow up to become a Moon Princess?" Catherine mumbled as the nurse carried her across the room and tucked her into bed.

"I think you already are one." the nurse said fondly, kissing her on the forehead, "Now perhaps you will tell me what your secret is?"

"Oh, I was waiting for the boy." Catherine murmured drowsily.

"Who is this boy?" the old woman asked.

"I don't know his name but some nights he sits on the garden wall and waves to me. And sometimes he leaves me presents. He told me he lives in the forest, can you imagine that? To live in the forest!"

"The forest?" the nurse repeated sharply, "And you've spoken with this boy?"

Catherine nodded as she yawned.

"How many times?"

"Just once, down by the gate. Then he started coming at night to sit on the garden wall."

"I've told you to stay away from that gate! Where do you put the presents he leaves you?"

"In my jewellery box." Catherine said as she gestured vaguely towards her dressing table. The last thing Catherine saw before she drifted off to sleep was her old maid's face above hers, the woman looked troubled.

The next day her jewellery box was gone. When Catherine asked her nurse-maid what had become of it, the old woman told her that Catherine's mother had taken it and had ordered that from now on she was forbidden to associate with the boy from the forest. Soon the jewellery box was returned; devoid of the gifts the boy had given her. Catherine cried. She cried for the pretty ribbons and the carved wooden animal figures, for the shells and the scratchy drawings of girls standing on balconies, she cried for the little leather purse and for the pearl ring he had given her. But most of all she cried because she knew that she would never again see the wild boy of the forest.

Catherine's mother quickly tired of her daughter's incessant weeping and, one week later, Catherine was sent to a boarding school in London. She would soon forget all about her night-time visitor and of the treasures he had left; just as he would soon forget all about her.


	2. Chapter One

London, 10th March 1840

The Marborough Academy for Young Ladies was an affluent building in Kensington facing onto Hyde Park. Built in 1742 by a celebrated architect with a penchant for Gothic architecture, the building was originally a museum displaying the findings of a certain gentleman explorer from his escapades in the Orient. The museum got into financial difficulty, however, after the death of said explorer’s great-grandson who died childless, leaving  no one left to take over the management of the museum, and so the collection was donated to The British Museum and the building itself was auctioned.

The museum was bought by a successful businessman named Geoffrey Marborough who had become suddenly very rich through some clever investment in the railways; he bought the building for a knock-down price and immediately set about having the interior renovated ready for the summer when he would move in his young wife who was expecting their first child. For over forty years the family lived there until Marborough and his wife died in an accident when the steamship they were travelling to America on tragically sunk in the Atlantic, leaving their fortune and the house to their only child.

Hestia Marborough was forty-three and a spinster. It was she who decided to turn the great house into a finishing school for young ladies and so, for almost fifteen years her establishment had groomed girls from wealthy families to become respectable, accomplished young women, ready to grace society with their pleasant conversation and their charming smiles.

It was here that Catherine had spent the past eight years of her life.

Phillip Hadaway climbed out of the carriage in the courtyard of Marlborough Academy. He was a man of about fifty-seven with very small round spectacles and a floppy moustache not unlike a walrus, anyone who knew Philip Hadaway knew that he never wore anything but neat black suits and a black bowler hat.

He looked up at the imposing building with its grotesque carvings of demons and gargoyles, blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief and rubbed his aching bones - his rheumatism was beginning to twinge after the long and bumpy carriage ride.

Picking up his briefcase from inside the carriage, Hadaway walked up the five steps to the great front doors and pulled the bell he found there. After a significant wait the door was opened by a red faced scullery maid who appeared to have ran from somewhere within the bowels of the vast house to answer the door.

“Good mornin’ sir,” she huffed, tucking a stray piece of ash blonde hair under her cap, “’Ow can I be of assistance?”

“I am here to speak with Ms. Marborough.” Hadaway said, watching the maid fuss over her hair caused him to subconsciously lift his hat and run a hand over his own thinning hair to flatten it down.

“Ms. Marborough’s in ’er office upstairs, please come in.” the girl stepped back and held the door open wider.

Hadaway stepped across the threshold into a gloomy entrance hall: the floor was tiled with black and white diamond shaped tiles and the walls were panelled with dark mahogany wood, a mahogany staircase to the right of the front door wound gradually upwards to a mezzanine which stretched off left and right into a long corridor of doors. In one corner a grandfather clock ticked quietly, in another a stuffed polar bear reared up, his glassy stare fixed upon the door and in the centre of the hall stood a round table covered in a lace cloth topped with a potted Aspidistra. The little maid led him upstairs and stopped before the first door they came to.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in remembrance, “Who shall I say’s callin’?”

“Phillip Hadaway.”

The girl knocked twice upon the door then slipped inside, “’Scuse me ma’m,” he heard her saying, “There’s a Mister ’adaway ’ere to see you.” Hadaway stepped into the office and the maid closed the door behind her as she left.

Hestia Marborough was a short plump woman in her late fifties. Her features were sharp like that of a bird and her hair iron grey, which she always wore pulled back into a tight bun. As a little girl, Ms. Marborough had been brought up by a strict governess and had grown up to be and expert in etiquette and formalities, thus she opened the Marborough Academy for Young Ladies so as to train future generations of debutants. She was a stern woman but also passionate about her school. She rose from her chair and walked around her desk to greet the visitor.

“Good morning, Ms. Marborough. My name is Phillip Hadaway, I am the solicitor to the Merryweather family.” Hadaway said, shaking her hand.

“How do you do. Merryweather you say?” the headmistress considered the name for a moment, “Ah! You’ll be here in regards to Catherine I assume?”

“Yes I am.”

“Delightful girl. She is in her last year if I remember correctly. Do sit down.” Hadaway did in the chair before the headmistress’ desk.

“Yes,” Ms. Marborough continued, settling herself in her own padded leather chair which seemed all too big for her, “A lovely girl, very gifted but one does get the impression that she does not take her lessons all that seriously. Please don’t misunderstand me and think that Catherine is an idle girl! Oh not at all! On the contrary, she is at the top of the class for all of her subjects, but she seems to believe that she will never use the lessons we teach.” This was true, Catherine excelled at the academic side of her education and her teachers found her to be a highly talented pupil, though they often lamented upon the fact that she was without a serious attitude when it came to trying to teach her the lessons that a young debutant needs to know. For whenever they tried to give her such instructions she would simply laugh it off, explaining that her family weren't the kind to make a big fuss about introducing her to society through a debutant ball. That was the problem with these country girls, the teachers tutted as they conversed in the staffroom, they were brought up to be too free-spirited. And Catherine Merryweather was a perfect example of such a girl: confident without being precocious, sweet natured and yet, at the same time, fiery and independent.

“I am afraid Catherine is probably right, Ms. Marborough, it isn’t likely that she will be formally presented to society.” Hadaway said.

“Why ever not?” Ms. Marborough said with a hint of outrage.

“This is the reason of my coming here today. I’m sorry to say that Catherine’s mother died yesterday. Lady Merryweather would of course have been responsible for arranging her daughter’s debutant season, but now her sole guardian is her elder brother Sir Benjamin and so it is unlikely that Catherine will enter London society.”

This made sense to Ms. Marborough; the Merryweathers, despite being considered rather reclusive by staying in their manor in the countryside rather than keeping a London townhouse where they would spend the season, were well known in society through the singular actions of Lady Elizabeth Merryweather who had garnered a reputation as a glamorous socialite. The gentlemen of the family were rather different though: she recalled encountering the family at a party at someone or other’s townhouse before Catherine had even started the school - in fact, it was at this evening that Lady Elizabeth discovered to her great interest that Ms. Marborough ran a girls boarding school - Lady Merryweather was surrounded by people, it was almost as if she was holding court despite the fact that she was a guest herself at this party (Hestia was sure that she had even seen the hosts themselves fawning over her) while her husband and younger son stood awkwardly at the fireplace, smiling weakly but politely. The eldest son, a redhead like his mother, was something different altogether, he swaggered about the room with a confidence which was not in the slightest bit becoming while he appraised the young ladies in the room with a feral look in his eye - rather like a wolf - Hestia herself found herself feeling oddly disturbed by that look. The other boy was dark and favoured his father in looks and disposition, he was quiet - on first impressions one was likely to think him rather dour - and yet there seemed to be something gentle about him, a kind of tentativeness or innocence.

“Oh goodness! How awful!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. The solicitor couldn’t tell whether she was unhappy for Catherine or just sorry to lose a talented potential protégé.

“I have here a letter from Sir Benjamin Merryweather.” Hadaway said, passing the envelope across the desk. The headmistress read the letter carefully then folded it back into the envelope.

“Well, let me see, it is ten o’clock so the senior girls will probably just be returning from their morning walk.” she said, rising from her chair and walking to the door. When she opened the door the sound of the chattering of numerous young girls floated up from the entrance hall. Hadaway followed her out into the corridor and stood watching from the mezzanine as Ms. Marborough descended the stairs.

A group of about thirty girls ranging from about sixteen to nineteen were filing through the front doors led by a teacher. They all wore bottle green dresses and coats with black stocking and black shoes, such was the school uniform. They clustered in the entrance hall chatting animatedly and giggling.

“Catherine Merryweather?” the headmistress said, raising her voice to be heard over the hubbub. A girl taller than all the others with a thick sheet of black curls tumbling down her back, turned around with her head thrown back, still laughing, but she immediately quietened and stood a little straighter when she realised it was the headmistress addressing her from upon the stairs.

“Please go up to my office.” Ms. Marborough said, “And kindly be quiet in the corridors, girls.” she shot over her shoulder to the remaining girls in the hall below as she followed Catherine upstairs.

Without a word, Catherine ascended the stairs and entered the office, giving Hadaway a curious glance as the passed him in the corridor. When they were all back inside the room, Ms. Marborough shut the door and gestured for Catherine to sit down in the seat which Hadaway had recently vacated.

“Now, my dear,” the headmistress said, returning to her own chair, “This is Mister Hadaway and he is your family’s solicitor, did you know that?”

“I did not. How do you do sir?” Catherine said, turning to look at said solicitor.

Phillip Hadaway was startled into silence, the face of the girl who addressed him was the absolute double of her recently deceased mother; the same almond shaped cat-like eyes with delicately arched brows, the same high cheekbones and elegantly sloping nose and full pointed lips.

“I am afraid I bring bad news, my lady.” he said, finally finding his voice, “It gives me great sorrow to have to tell you that your dear mother passed away yesterday.” The girl before him blinked disbelievingly for a while, then bit her lip and pressed her hands to her face. There was about a minute or so of uncomfortable silence in the room as Hadaway and Ms. Marborough glanced about awkwardly while Catherine sat in the chair, her body racked with silent sobs.

“How?” she finally croaked, taking a handkerchief from her pocket and scrubbing at her eyes vigorously.

“I believe it was Consumption. She was taken to her bed on Saturday and passed away in the early hours of yesterday morning. I have here a letter which your brother sent.” Hadaway picked up the letter from Ms. Marborough’s desk and handed it to her.

With trembling fingers Catherine struggled to take the letter from the envelope and unfold it; she recognised Benjamin’s sharp, slanting script immediately as she read:

 

_Ms. H. Marborough,_

_Marborough Academy for Young Ladies,_

_London._

_Ms. Marborough,_

_My sister, Catherine Merryweather, is educated at your institution. I am writing to inform you that yesterday, 9th March, 1840, my mother, Lady Elizabeth Merryweather, died after a sudden bout of illness. It has been decided that it would be in Catherine's best interests to return to our home, Moonacre Manor, indefinitely. On 10th of March our family solicitor, Mister Phillip Hadaway will escort Catherine back to Moonacre. I thank you and your academy for the years Catherine has spent in your care, and will send the monthly payment for her education/living fees up to the date of the 10th._

_Respectfully,_

_Sir Benjamin Merryweather_

Catherine didn’t know what to say so she folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope and handed it back to Hadaway, who in turn handed it to Ms. Marborough.

“I am to leave today?” she murmured numbly.

“I am afraid so, my lady.” Hadaway said.

“I suppose I should go to my room and pack my things.”

“Oh, yes, of course dear. You are excused.” Ms. Marborough said gently.

“I shall wait here. Take your time, my lady.” Hadaway called after her as she walked to the door.

Catherine sat down heavily upon her bed and looked around her. The room was long with a large bay window with a window seat at one end. She shared the room with three other girls and each girl had their own space in the room with her own bed, wardrobe, bookcase and bedside cabinet.

At that moment, her roommates returned from their lessons. They came bounding in, laughing and chattering but stopped abruptly when they saw Catherine sitting alone on her bed.

“Cat? What’s happened?” Lucy Porter said. Lucy was a thin, pale girl with the reddest hair anyone had ever seen.

“My family’s solicitor came here today to see me. My mother died yesterday.” Catherine said, wiping away tears she didn’t know she had been crying.

"Oh Cat, I'm ever so sorry!" Elizabeth Evans said, sitting next to Catherine and wrapping her arms around her. Elizabeth was a pretty girl with long brown hair and green eyes. It was a well known fact that once she graduated from Marborough, Elizabeth would marry a boy from St. Adrian's across the road. Her husband-to-be was an intelligent boy named Tristan Richards, though not the most handsome of boys, Tristan was a sweet, gentle boy whom Elizabeth had liked immediately after meeting him at one of the dances the two schools often held.

“I am to leave today with Mister Hadaway. I shan’t be coming back to Marborough.” Catherine sniffed.

“What, never ever?” Mary Waters exclaimed. Mary was the youngest of the girls and thus shorter and a little chubbier than the others.

“I don’t think so. My brother wrote in his letter that I am to return home indefinitely.”

“Oh, Cat! We’ll miss you so much!” Lucy exclaimed, taking Catherine’s hands.

Catherine wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, “I should start packing.” she said, standing up.

“Would you like us to help you?” Elizabeth asked. Catherine nodded.

The girls set about pulling Catherine’s travelling trunk out from under her bed and packing it. Wary Waters lined Catherine’s books in the bottom of the trunk, leather bound  novels of Shakespeare, Chaucer, Austen, Dickens, Shelly, Byron, Wordsworth and Tennyson. Lucy and Elizabeth took Catherine’s clothes from her wardrobe, folding them and packing them on top of the books. Catherine herself gathered together her mementos and knick-knacks she had scattered here and there; the moth-eaten teddy bear sitting on her pillow, brought with her when she arrived at Marborough eight years ago; the bunch of irises, now wilting, given to her by Richard McCray from St. Adrian's School for Boys across the road before he left for India last week; a drawing of an organ grinder's monkey she had once seen in Piccadilly Circus, sketched herself and pinned above her bed; a small ceramic ornament of a Japanese geisha standing on her bedside cabinet next to a glass prism which sometimes caught the sunlight and sent little rainbows around the room, a small framed photograph of her family. Catherine picked up the photograph and stared hard at the sepia toned image, immediately the memory of the day came flooding back...

_It was Summer and the hottest day for years. Catherine was four years old_ _and her old nurse fussed around her, curling her hair into perfect ringlets, making her change dresses over and over until she finally made up her mind as to which one made the little girl look her prettiest. The dress was of powder blue silk with long sleeves, white lace covered her entire throat up to her chin and adorned the hem of the dress and her cuffs, a dark blue silk sash was tied about her waist and her nurse tied a dark blue ribbon amongst Catherine's hair. She wore white stockings with even more lace upon them and pinching black velvet and leather shoes, tied with black silk ribbons and with shining buttons upon the ankles. Her nurse took her out into the garden where the family would be posing upon a white garden bench on the patio. The grass was yellowing and dry due to the heat and stood up in sharp points, having recently been mown by the gardeners. Catherine was placed upon her mother's knee who held her there firmly and reluctantly. Two things Catherine could remember about her mother: she was exquisitely beautiful and she had no time for any of her children. Today, she was dressed in a simple white muslin gown and wore pearls at her throat and hanging from her earlobes. Her chestnut brown hair was piled neatly atop her head so as to accentuate her fine bone structure and delicate features. Catherine's father stood behind with one hand upon his wife's shoulder and his other clutching the decorative rapier hanging from his belt. He looked regal and proud in his Colonel’s uniform, his many medals shining upon his chest and his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed. George and Benjamin, aged twenty-three and eighteen, respectively, sat on the grass at their mother's feet, dressed identically in startlingly white, baggy shirts and tan breeches. Benjamin favoured his father in looks and build and shared the same wavy black hair, while George had the same chestnut locks and slight build as his mother. Catherine on the other hand, had her mother's beauty and the hair of her father (as she grew it would soon become apparent that she would also inherit his athletic build and tallness). Catherine felt hot and flustered and wouldn't stop fidgeting, much to her mother's displeasure. The photographer arranged them this way and that then stepped behind the strange contraption which turned out to be his camera, ducked under the cloth and took the photograph. When it was over, Catherine was handed back to her nurse and the boys sent back to their lessons. Her father went to his study where he was an almost constant fixture, the children were often told by their mother and the servants not to disturb him whilst he was working, but generally he was always pleased to see them should they choose to sneak in to visit him. Catherine's mother disappeared back into her own exciting world: a whirlwind of fashion and parties, social calls and fine food. Catherine often wouldn't see her all day until for an hour during dinner, unless her mother was holding a party and then Catherine would have to eat in the nursery. When the photographs arrived two weeks later, little Catherine was most annoyed that there was no colour in them._

When Catherine returned to the headmistress’ office half and hour later, she had changed into a black mourning gown and had even taken her trademark bottle green ribbon out of her hair. Hadaway was quite surprised by her sudden transformation - even her entire demeanour had morphed into solemnity. 

“The school porters have taken my trunk down to your carriage, sir.” she said, fiddling nervously with the catch on her travelling bag.

“Well, if you’re ready, my lady, we shall take our leave.” Hadaway said.

“Goodbye, my dear.” Ms. Marborough said, shaking her hand, “I am awfully sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you for having me these past eight years, Ms. Marborough. The lessons I have learnt are invaluable.” Catherine said, smiling shakily. Then she and Hadaway walked together out the office, down the stairs, across the entrance hall and through the great front doors.

The morning was dull. Thick storm clouds hung in the sky, purple and grey in colour and the wind was violent, barrelling through the school playground in icy bursts sending leaves skittering here and there. As soon as Catherine stepped outside, the wind immediately whipped past, grabbing her hair and swirling it about her head and into her face. She sighed exasperatedly and tried to regain control of her hair but the wind merely ripped it back out of her fingers and threw it back into her face. A man who she assumed to be the coach driver approached her.

"Good morning, miss. I'll be the one taking you home." he said with a strong West Country accent. He reached out and gently took her bag out of her hand and placed it into the carriage.

"Thank you." Catherine said, her eyes stinging from where the locks of her hair had swiped into them. She could barely see the man's face but she did see the hand which he proffered to help her up into the carriage. Gratefully, she took it and climbed in to what she hoped would be out of the wind. Unfortunately, she was wrong, for one of the carriage windows had jammed halfway open and, try as she might, Catherine couldn't get it to shut. Finally she gave up, flopping back into the seat with a cry of dismay, the wind still playing with her hair. Hadaway climbed in after her a moment later and Catherine asked him to close the window. He told her that he had tried to on his journey to the school but it seemed to be stuck fast, however he rather gallantly tried again to shut it but ended up falling unsuccessfully back into his seat, puffing and panting and rubbing his aching joints.

The driver climbed up onto his seat and, with one quick flick of the reins, the horses broke into a quick trot causing the carriage to sway precariously.

Catherine watched as London passed by; grey streets filled with grey buildings and grey people. It all seemed so drab and only helped to deepen her sadness. Finally, she could stand no more of the wind blowing her hair in her face and began burrowing in her bag for a piece of ribbon with which to tie it back with, but all she was able to find was a red scarf, forgotten at the bottom of the bag since some distant trip to the seaside. Catherine bit her lip; could she really tie her hair with a red scarf when she was supposed to be in mourning? What would Mister Hadaway think of her? After a few moments locked in internal struggle over whether or not it was the proper thing to do, it suddenly occurred to her that her own mother wouldn't have been phased by protocol and wouldn't have hesitated to tie her hair with a coloured scarf. Vanity got the better of her and Catherine wrapped the scarf about her curls, telling herself that she wouldn't make a good impression by arriving at Moonacre looking as though she had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

As it turned out, Mister Hadaway didn’t so much as bat an eyelid at the sight of her tying her hair with a striking crimson scarf, he merely said, “You look very much like your mother. Except for your eyes and your hair.” This was true, Catherine had curls as dark as a raven’s wing, inherited from her father along with his large chocolate brown eyes instead of her mother’s shining grey eyes like liquid silver.

“Did she suffer?” Catherine asked quietly, hardly wanting to know the answer.

“No,” Hadaway said, “It was very brief. The doctor thought it might have been Influenza at first. She passed away before it could truly take effect.”

“A blessing, I suppose,” Catherine murmured, “Did you know that I had a little brother who died due to Consumption?”

“I…yes, yes I did.” the solicitor said awkwardly.

“Albert. He died two weeks after being born. I was only three years old but I remember it all quite clearly. I’m glad that my mother did not suffer what he did, poor little lamb.” Catherine turned her head and stared despondently out the window.


	3. Chapter Two

As they left London behind and journeyed further into the countryside the weather significantly improved. The clouds gradually changed from heavy purple in colour through to pale grey until finally the sunshine broke through and with it a clear blue sky. The wind however, remained strong. Catherine was so overcome with joy at the sight of green fields that she leant out the window of the coach and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with clear air, delighted to not be able to smell the smog and soot which polluted the London air. Wildflowers lined the roads in bright fireworks of colour: pinks and purples, yellows, reds and whites. The carriage came to a stretch of road lined by huge oak trees growing on either side, their branches so long that they met each other in the middle of the road in a canopy which glowed green as the sunlight shone through the leaves, creating a mosaic of light and shadow upon the road. The road twisted and began to progress downhill towards the village of Silverydew.

“We shall stop at Silverydew for a while so you may rest before you continue on to Moonacre.” Hadaway said.

“Alone?”

“I’m afraid so, my lady. I am expected back at the firm.”

“So you have to travel all the way back to London?”

“Oh no, I split my time between my firm in London and my offices in Silverydew.”

The coach pulled to a stop outside Mr. Hadaway’s offices and the solicitor hopped from the coach, offering a hand to Catherine to help her down. “Hadaway & Son Solicitors” the sign above the firm’s door proudly proclaimed.

“Your son followed you into the family business?”

“Ah…no, actually, I never married. I inherited the business from my father.” Hadaway said, reddening behind the ears a little as he opened the door for her and ushered her inside.

Catherine found herself in a dismal little room which seemingly served as a waiting room for Hadaway’s clients; three of the walls were lined with bookcases which overflowed with all manner of books, files, scrolls, manuscripts and ledgers; the fourth wall held a row of rickety wooden chairs for clients to sit upon while they waited; a maze of tables and filing cabinets twisted throughout the room, all as cluttered as the bookcases.

“It seems you could do with someone to arrange some sort of filing system for you, Mister Hadaway.” Catherine observed wryly. The sudden screech of a chair being pushed backwards brought Catherine’s attention to the clerk she had failed to notice before, sitting hunched in the corner of the room with his back to a window, scratching away with a quill and parchment.

“I does me best ’ere, mum. Honest I does!” the clerk squawked, a note of injure in his voice. He couldn’t have been more then twenty-five with a long, homely face and wide blue eyes. He picked his way quickly through the network of tables and filing and cabinets and was standing before Catherine in no time - clearly he was well practiced at having to negotiate his way around the disorderly room - scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes.

“This is my clerk, Josiah Flitch.” Hadaway said, sounding a little exasperated. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, mum.” said Flitch brightly, offering a hand, the fingers stained with black ink, to shake Catherine’s.

Hadaway was horrified, “This is Lady Catherine Merryweather, you fool!” he exclaimed, swatting Flitch’s scruffy hand away, “Bow!”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, mum.” Flitch repeated, his bow was more of a spasm at the waist in Catherine’s direction.

“ _My lady._ ” Hadaway hissed.

“M’lady.” Flitch intoned.

“If you’d like to come through to my office, my lady?” Mr. Hadaway said, steering her towards a door in the bare wall of chairs which Josiah Flitch dashed ahead to open for them. The solicitor escorted her into his office - which turned out to be just as cluttered as his waiting room - then, realising that Flitch had trailed in after them, dismissed the clerk with a wave of the hand. Flitch looked petulant for a moment then left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Do sit down, do sit down.” Hadaway said, scooping a pile of envelopes off a spare chair and depositing them with his hat upon the piles of papers on his desk. Catherine settled herself in the chair while the old man did likewise in his own on the other side of the desk.

“Please excuse Josiah, what he lacks in manners he makes up for in…” the solicitor trailed off, looking puzzled, as though he had just realised that Josiah Flitch had no redeeming qualities whatsoever and was wondering why on Earth he had hired him.

“I do hope I didn’t offend him when I remarked upon the state of your offices, I realise it really wasn’t my place to say such a thing.” Catherine said carefully.

 “Eh?” Hadaway said, roused from his contemplation, “Oh not at all, my lady, not at all! Though you are very right, I really should get someone in to deal with the files.”

“I’d be happy to do it myself, even.”

The old man looked appalled at the mere idea of it, “Oh, Heavens no, my lady! I could never ask you to do such a thing!”

“Why ever not? I’m not in school any longer and I don’t expect I shall be doing anything with my days from now on - I’ll be positively bored to death!”

Hadaway merely made a sound of noncommittal and changed the subject, “Oh! You simply must forgive me! I’ve been terribly rude and haven’t even offered you any refreshment after such a long and uncomfortable journey! What will you have?”

“Just water please.”

“Flitch!” Hadaway bellowed, making Catherine jump. For a moment they heard the sound of shuffling about in the other room - Catherine could easily picture the skinny clerk scuttling amongst the warrens of tables like a weasel as he made his way across the room to answer his employer’s call - a moment later the door swung open slightly and Flitch’s pale face appeared through the gap.

“What?” he said insolently, then, seemingly remembering himself, amended this to, “Yes, Mister ’adaway?” 

“Fetch some water for Lady Merryweather.”

The clerk blinked for a moment, “To drink?” he asked blankly.

Hadaway was speechless and Catherine was sure he would lose his temper with the clerk just as soon as he found his voice, “Yes, thank you Josiah. That’ll do nicely.” she said quickly. Flitch shrugged and sloped away in search of water, closing the door behind him.

“To drink? To drink? Well, what else does one do with water, I ask you?” Hadaway blurted, staring in bafflement at the door after Josiah.

Catherine could scarcely contain her laughter at the pair, so instead she said, “Tell me, sir, how is it that you came to employ Josiah?”

“He used to do the occasional piece of copy work for the London firm. When my previous clerk, a man by the name of Lilywhite, emigrated to America with his family, I suggested that Flitch take his place.”

“How long has he worked for you?”

“Two years this August.” There was a sudden loud crash from the room next door and the sound of a muffled curse.

Hadaway winced, “He isn’t very bright.” he added quietly in a conspiratorial voice, as if she hadn’t noticed.

At that moment the door opened and Flitch returned, plonking a glass and a pitcher of water on the desk. Hadaway gave him a meaningful look and, surprisingly, Flitch got the message for he picked up the pitcher and slopped some water into the glass which he handed to Catherine with a grin.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Lady Catherine? Some fresh fruit perhaps?” Hadaway asked. Out the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Josiah stiffen slightly and furrow his brow; she understood immediately that despite the fact Mr. Hadaway had asked if there was anything else _he_ could get for her, the task would undoubtedly fall to the lowly clerk of seeking out fresh fruit should her whim demand some - something which Josiah understandably felt none too happy about.

“No, thank you, sir. I expect I shall eat when I arrive at Moonacre.” she said, taking a sip of water, “Is it a very far journey to the Manor?”

“Nah, it ain’t.” Josiah butted in, “’bout an ’alf hour walk if you walk quick.”

Mr. Hadaway shot his clerk a dark look, “Josiah, hadn’t you better be getting on with copying up Mr. McGregor’s will?” he said, his voice menacingly calm. The clerk glowered unashamedly at his employer then trudged from the room, once again slamming the door impressively behind him.

Catherine cleared her throat to fill the awkward silence, “How has my brother taken my mother’s death?” she asked.

“Ah. In truth, Lady Catherine, Sir Benjamin has not been himself since…” Hadaway stopped mid-sentence, an expression of alarm passed fleetingly over his face then his features relaxed themselves into something of a forced nonchalance, “Your brother is expecting your arrival any moment now, we’d best not keep him waiting.” he said hurriedly, rising from his chair and crossing the room to open the door for her. Catherine was confused, normally the solicitor was the very definition of good manners but now he seemed determined to hurry her out the room, for fear of saying something he shouldn’t.

Catherine followed Mr. Hadaway from the office and outside. As she passed through the waiting room she noticed that Flitch had returned to his hunched position over his work so she called to him, “Goodbye, Josiah.” to which he grunted, “A pleasure, mum.” without so much as raising his head.

Outside, the coach driver was leaning against the carriage, awaiting her return. Catherine stopped in her tracks and stared up at him in surprise.

“Digweed? Is it really you?” she gasped.

“That it is, my lady, that it is!” the man smiled. Digweed had worked for her family for as long as she could remember as a mixture of a coach driver, butler and an odd-job man; the last time she had seen him, she had been ten years old and he had drove her and her nursemaid to London when Catherine’s mother had sent her to boarding school. He hadn’t changed in the slightest in the eight years she had been away.  

“I can’t believe it! I didn’t recognise you in London because the wind blew my hair in my face. It’s so wonderful to see you!” Catherine cried, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. Digweed laughed a little nervously at being hugged in such a way by the lady of the house but couldn’t hide his ecstatic grin - he was pleased to see her too.

“Thank you for escorting me home, sir.” Catherine said, turning to Phillip Hadaway and shaking his hand.

“The pleasure was entirely mine, my lady.” Hadaway said, keeping a hold of her hand so as to help her up into the carriage. Hadaway closed the carriage door behind her and knocked on it twice in a friendly farewell. Digweed took his place once again up in the driver’s seat and spurred the horses onwards. And so Catherine continued her journey to Moonacre alone.

Catherine resumed her position leaning out the open window for the rest of the journey, filling her lungs with the clean country air and admiring the fine scenery. They were about halfway to the Manor when they passed a group of people standing at the roadside. There was about five or six of them, all dressed in black and lurking half-hidden amongst the trees at the edge of the vast forest which began alongside the road to the Manor. At the exact moment they passed them, a strong gust of wind barrelled past the carriage, caught the scarf in Catherine’s hair and wrenched it away, causing her black curls to come spilling out into the breeze. Catherine watched as the crimson material rode the wind back in the opposite direction, flapping like some bright exotic bird until one of the people by the roadside shot their hand up and caught it in midair. The only look Catherine got of the person before the carriage thundered past was a glimpse of dark eyes, brown curls and tanned skin.

“Who are those people standing by the roadside?” Catherine called up to Digweed, “One of them has my scarf.“ Digweed didn’t answer, merely continued to sing tunelessly to himself as he had all the way back from London. Catherine ducked back inside the coach and continued the rest of the journey with her hair once again flapping in her face.

The sight of the Manor crept up on her so suddenly that it took Catherine a split second to realise what she was looking at; one moment she had been staring out the window at the innumerable trees which passed the carriage window when, abruptly, they had stopped and she found herself staring up a grassy slope which gradually formed into a hill upon which Moonacre Manor sat. Her home.

The carriage stopped at a gatehouse and Digweed jumped down and walked to the gate, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket as he went. Once the gate was raised, he climbed back onto the carriage and ordered the horses to walk on, reaching up to pull a chain which closed the gate as soon as the carriage was on the other side.

Tall, black poplar trees lined either side of the gravel drive, blocking almost all light until, quite suddenly, the line of trees stopped, allowing Catherine a clear view of the park. Catherine admired the vast sprawl of grass with its occasional group of trees scattered here and there, in the distance she spotted a herd of deer grazing peacefully and she could even see where the vast stone wall which bordered the estate stopped and started up again, leaving a sizeable gap which allowed access to the forest growing wild and untameable beyond. Catherine now turned her attention to the house, she was seeing it afresh for, in her many years away from home, she had forgotten what the Manor looked like. She was not disappointed, the Manor was so beautiful that Catherine took a moment to thank God that she should be blessed to live in such a place.

The Manor itself was Westerly facing and made of pale grey stone, with two towers and its numerous spires, a blue slate tiled roof and many large windows - some of which were stained glass - it looked like something out of one of the fairy tale books which Catherine loved so much as a little girl. However, as the carriage pulled to a stop outside the house, Catherine noticed the blemishes upon the house's exterior where its upkeep had clearly been disregarded for some time: weeds and plants grew in cracks between the stone, tiles were missing here and there from the roof, the windows were covered in dust and grime and some panes of glass were cracked.

Digweed opened the carriage door and helped her down with an encouraging smile and Catherine took a moment to straighten her appearance and glance about at her surroundings.

“Catherine.” a voice said suddenly, causing her to turn her head quickly to look at the grand front doors of the Manor. Standing in the doorway, half masked in shadow, was her brother Benjamin. He stepped out of the shadows and Catherine took a step forward to meet him. For a moment, they merely stood still, each studying how the other had changed over the past eight years. Catherine was shaken by how much Benjamin looked like their father; while she herself was tall for a girl of her time, Benjamin stood at a height well past six feet; his shoulders and chest were broad and his arms strong; his hair was the same wavy ink black and his eyes the same deep, impenetrable brown. His face looked as though it were carved entirely out of white marble; pale and utterly smooth, he was extraordinarily handsome with his strong, square jaw and long straight nose; his lips were sharp and set into a stern line.

“Hello Catherine.” he said, his face expressionless.

“Hello Benjamin.” she replied shyly. Cautiously, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, struggling to hold in the sob which was building in her throat. She got the impression that he was quite taken aback by her action, for he cleared his throat uncomfortably and patted her briefly on the back. When the pair stepped apart he cleared his throat again before speaking.

“Come, I shall show you to your room.” he said, turning and leading the way inside the Manor.

The walls of the Entrance Hall were a fading powder blue and were painted with yellow flowers and vines, marble pillars lined the room and an exquisite fireplace, carved with the figures of mermaids, stood to one side. In front of the fireplace, upon the white and blue tile diamonds of the floor, basking in the warmth and the glow of the flames crackling in the grate, lay a large black dog.

Upon seeing her, the dog stretched extravagantly then got up, prowled over towards Catherine to give her a sniff and, upon seemingly deciding that she posed no threat, pressed its head into her palm, demanding some attention. Catherine stared down in a mixture of terror and wonderment at the huge beast which was neither dog nor wolf. The creature stared back with doleful brown eyes.

“My God! What is it?” she exclaimed.

“His name is Wrolf. He appeared out of the forest one Christmas Eve and hasn't left since.” Benjamin explained absentmindedly as he started up the stairs which ran alongside the front door before turning sharply to the right above the door and up to the second floor. “He shan't harm you. He knows you're of Merryweather blood.”

“Do you now? Good boy.” Catherine said quietly to the dog, stroking the satin-like fur upon his head. Wrolf looked up at her lovingly with his large drooping eyes and, for a fleeting second, she was sure that they flashed red. Catherine started but dismissed it as her imagination then turned quickly and ran up the stairs after her brother. He was waiting for her on the second floor landing.

“This way.” he said, leading her along the corridor and through a pair of doors to the East Wing of the house. They stopped before a door with the image of a cherry blossom branch carved into the wood, Catherine was amazed at how much craftsmanship had gone into creating the intricacy of each tiny flower and even the patterns of the bark upon the branch.

“This is your room. I don't know how well you will remember it.” Benjamin said, opening the door before turning and walking back down the corridor the way they came, without another word.

The room was light and airy and facing Eastward so as to catch the dawn sunlight. The ceiling was high and carved with plaster ivy tendrils which gathered to form the base of the crystal chandelier with its delicate tear shaped droplets. These hanging droplets caught the sunlight and scattered little rainbows about the room. The white walls were painted with fading flowers; pink roses, lavender, poppies and forget-me-nots climbed the walls from the honey coloured Oak floor. Into one wall was set a fireplace, a beautiful white marble affair with two carved unicorns flanking it, and in front of this was an armchair of a dusky golden material with a matching footstool. A small Oak end table was placed beside the armchair, on top of this was a golden oil lamp, its glass shade painted with pink roses. Both the table and the lamp were carved with ivy: the leaves trailed up the table legs and around the stand of the lamp. Standing either side of the fireplace was a wardrobe and a roll-top desk, they were both made of the same honey coloured Oak wood which seemed to be a theme running throughout the room just as the dusky gold material was. To the right of the door, standing on a raised section of the floor was a four-poster bed with gold silk sheets and white chiffon hangings embroidered with little golden flowers. Directly opposite the door were some French Doors leading out to the balcony, they shared the same sheer hangings as the bed and the balmy sunlight shone through them, illuminating the whole room. To the right of the bed stood an Oak dressing table and mirror. Finally, to the left of the bed was a window set into an alcove, the window seat below it was cushioned in the same gold material as the armchair and the covers on the bed; shell-pink cherry blossom was painted onto the wall, framing the alcove. Either side of the alcove stood two Oak bookcases, empty apart from a small cluster of books of Fairy Tales left over from her childhood.

Catherine walked out onto the balcony; it overlooked the gardens and below was a trellis laden with pink climbing roses. She leant against the balcony rail and gazed at the countryside around the manor. The gardens sprawled out below the balcony, albeit overgrown they had a kind of wild charm about them. They were surrounded by a high crumbling stone wall which separated them from the forest which loomed up so close to the wall that some long branches overhung into the garden. Catherine stared at the forest: it exuded some sort of magnetism which attracted her towards it like a moth to a flame, from the outside it looked so wild and foreboding but inside she was sure it was alive with beauty.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Catherine went back inside to find Digweed had arrived, puffing and panting, with her luggage.

“Oh let me help you!” she said, rushing to take a couple of suitcases from him before he keeled over.

“Sir Benjamin requests that you join him in the parlour as soon as you have finished unpacking your things.” Digweed said between gasps for air.

“Thank you Digweed.” He nodded then hobbled from the room, straightening his back with some difficulty.

Catherine spent about half an hour unpacking her trunks; she hung her many dresses and clothes in the large wardrobe which stood on one side of the fireplace and was pleased to find that they all fit inside with plenty room to spare; she lined up the books she had brought with her on the bookcases and placed the Japanese Geisha ornament and the glass prism upon her mantelpiece; finally she placed her childhood teddy-bear and the family photograph on the bedside cabinet. Before she left the room, Catherine stopped to study the jewellery box, carved entirely out of a solid piece of Rose Quartz, which was lying upon her dressing table, almost as if it had been waiting patiently the eight years of her absence for her return. She opened it but found it to be empty, all except the theme from ‘Swan Lake’ which it played in sweet tinkling notes like fairy bells.

Benjamin was sitting in an armchair beside the fire in the Entrance Hall with Wrolf lying at his feet.

“I trust you are happy with your room?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of brandy from a cut crystal decanter. The rich amber liquid sloshed into the glass in a spiral.

“Yes, thank you.” Catherine said, tracing the spiralling vines and flowers carved upon one of the pillars with her finger.

Benjamin raised the glass to his lips, “You may wish to look in the old nursery, I believe Mother had some of your belongings packed into boxes and stored in there after you left,” he paused for a moment, savouring the taste of the drink, “After the funeral we will go to Mister Hadaway’s office for the reading of her will. Before she died, she had most of her belongings bequeathed to you.”

Catherine was surprised that this woman, who had had nothing to do with her in the last eight years, and almost as less in the years before she attended school, would do such a thing. She felt a rush of tenderness for the mother she barely knew.

“When will the funeral be?” she asked quietly.

Benjamin took another mouthful of brandy before answering, “I have arranged to have it take place a week from today.”

“Where…where is she?”

“The Doctor’s surgery in Silverydew.”

“May I go see her tomorrow?”

“As you wish.” Benjamin shrugged.

“Have you written to George?” Catherine asked tentatively, knowing the dislike which flowed between her two brothers.

“Yes.”

“Will he be attending the funeral?”

“I have not yet received a reply.”

“Oh. Well…I'm going to take a turn around the garden - with your permission, of course?”

“As you wish.” Benjamin repeated with another shrug, “Only, stay away from the forest.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t safe.”

“Why?”

“You always did ask too many questions. Even as a little girl you were forever asking questions.” A flicker of a shadow of a smile might have crossed Benjamin's face, “Take Wrolf with you.”

“Come on Wrolf.” Catherine said and the huge dog immediately got to his feet and followed her.

It was only when she was outside that it occurred to her that Benjamin had not told her why the forest was so dangerous.


	4. Chapter Three

The gardens were vast and sprawling and yet wild and unkempt. Through a wooden door set into a stone wall Catherine found the kitchen garden - the only place which seemed to be looked after. The vegetable patches were placed in neat, regimented formations; strawberry plants with their delicate white flowers and green steams laden with ripe, shining red fruit; cabbages, green and red, lying in rows like large exotic flowers; potato plants, their lush green leaves the only evidence of the vegetables which lay hidden in the earth; pea plants, their pods hanging in crescents on their vines; carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips and spinach, broccoli and cauliflowers, numerous types of beans and herbs, and all looked healthy and appetising, even in their natural, uncooked state. Some fruit trees also grew in the garden: plums, peaches, nectarines and apricots, and in the middle of the garden was a large mulberry-tree, a simple wooden bench standing underneath in the shade of its vast branches.

A wooden gate inside one of the garden walls led to a walled orchard, its many trees stretching out for almost a mile. Apple-trees, pear-trees and cherry-trees, their trunks covered in moss and silver lichen and their branches a mass of pretty blossom, the teardrop shaped petals falling amongst the soft, springy grass and the snowdrops which grew there.

As she explored Wrolf walked by her side; he was so large that his head was parallel to her hip and she walked with her hand resting atop it, feeling the soft velvet of the fur beneath her fingertips.

She found a rose garden situated directly below her bedroom window. The rose garden was circular and at its centre was a fountain, surprisingly still in working order, the water tumbled from bowl to bowl, bubbling and frothing where it fell, catching the pale March sunlight. Atop the fountain was a carved figure of Eros, his bow and arrow at the ready, seemingly aiming straight for her balcony. The roses were in every colour possible; lustrous red; yellow and orange; pink, growing on the trellis beneath the balcony; white, pure and unblemished, their petals like silk; even rare varieties with two colours marbleised together. But clearly the plants had not been cared for in a long time for they grew spindly in all directions with many thorns, their points thin and sharp. The garden was bordered by a low hedge which, once upon a time, boasted topiary decorations. Catherine stared at the formless shapes: was that supposed to be a peacock or a squirrel? Had this once been a Sea Monster or an elephant?

Walking through a pergola wrapped in a trailing pink bougainvillea, led to a square pond and a pillared pavilion. The area surrounding the pond was lined with beautiful shining tiles: metallic blues and greens like peacock feathers, gold and bronze, and a smooth sparkling ivory white. The pond itself was choked with weeds and lily pads and the water stagnant and green.

As Catherine continued to explore the seemingly endless gardens she discovered the overgrown lawns and the weeds rearing amongst the flowerbeds. The varieties of flowers and plants were in their hundreds; great fireworks of colour planted carefully so as to make patterns and knot gardens. She walked through forests of bosquet trees and even discovered a long forgotten walled garden planted entirely with white plants and flowers.

The tall stone walls surrounding the estate were so old and laden with ivy and other plants which had found their way into small cracks as seeds and flourished, that they were crumbling and fallen in many places. It was next to the Eastern wall that Catherine discovered something which shocked her: the wall here was covered in a blanket of ivy so thick that the stone on which it grew was not visible, opposite this, a great, overgrown lawn sprawling behind it, stood a decorative white garden bench; the garden bench where Catherine's family photograph had been taken. It stood alone and forgotten, the white paint peeling to reveal the dark grey metal underneath.

Catherine began to sway, she quite suddenly felt very faint. She sat down heavily upon the bench and began to sob uncontrollably. She found herself unable to stop shivering and her vision was clouded by a mass of silver, like sunlight upon lapping water. She was going to be sick, she could feel the water gushing into her mouth and feel the bile rising in her throat. Quickly, she leant forward and put her head between her knees to try and fight off the feeling of faintness, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, filling her lungs with cool air. _“You are going into shock.”_ a voice said, a distant beacon of sanity amongst the swirling mass of confusion within her mind. She stared at her pale, shaking hands clasped in front of her face amongst the layers of black material of her dress.

Catherine looked up, everything was blurred and she wasn't thinking straight. She glanced around for Wrolf but he was gone and she couldn't remember where she had lost him within the vast gardens. She looked at the wall of ivy in front of her, suddenly the tendrils of leaves began to move: coiling and writhing like languorous snakes, shadows began to close in on her and Catherine felt faint again, she dropped her head.

“Who is that?” a voice hissed.

“I don’t know.” whispered another. Catherine raised her head and blinked into the darkness. The shadows, the shadows were talking about her?

“Where is she from?” the first voice said.

“I said I don't-” the curtain of ivy shuddered, leaves fell to the ground.

“London.” a third voice, soft and silken, interrupted.

“How do you know that?” the first asked.

“Look at her clothes. No girls around here wear clothes like that. Things are different there.”

Catherine got to her feet and apprehensively approached the wall of foliage. She stared, trying to discern the invisible figures amongst the leaves.

“Your father will want to know about this. Do you suppose he'll know who she is Robi-”

“Shut up! She's walking towards us! She can hear us!” the soft voice hissed.

The voices fell silent. Catherine stood completely still, staring as though hypnotised at the hanging tendrils of ivy. The seconds seemed to drag on forever as she searched for the invisible whisperers until, all at once, an explosion of sniggers startled her. Catherine gasped and stumbled backwards. She felt something soft brush against her hand which hung by her side: it was Wrolf, he stood growling ferociously; his ink black fur standing erect in hackles along his back and his once doleful brown eyes seemed to be flashing with the fires of Hell. There was a commotion from behind the leaves and the bushes rocked violently. Catherine was sure that she heard footsteps running hastily away on the other side of the wall.

“Oh Wrolf!” she moaned, glad that he had returned to her while she felt so ill and afraid. The big dog nudged the back of her hand with is cold wet nose.

“Take me home.” Catherine whispered.

And so, with her hand buried in the soft fur upon his neck, the black hound led his ailing Mistress to the house via the quickest route. Once through the front door, Catherine collapsed immediately into Benjamin's arms.


	5. Chapter Four

Robin, Henry and Richard ran swiftly home to Castle de Noir to tell Robin’s father about the mysterious young woman they had seen in the carriage and in the Merryweather gardens. When they got there, Coeur de Noir was sitting at the table in the hall, eating dinner with Dulac and the other men.

“A girl you say?” Coeur de Noir said with interest, leaning forward in his chair, “What kind of girl?”

Robin was at a loss for words, why did his father always ask unanswerable questions? To him, one girl was no different from the next.

Richard, however, seemed to understand what his uncle wanted to hear and this didn’t surprise Robin - Richard was forever dallying with the scullery maids and serving girls, “A girl of good breeding.” the blonde boy piped up. Robin agreed with this, the girl had a somewhat proud and regal air about her.

“Tall, with black hair and dark eyes.” Richard continued, “And the Demon Dog did her bidding.”

“She’ll be of Merryweather blood, then,” Dulac said through a mouthful of bread, “If the dog was loyal to her. A distant cousin arrived for the funeral, perhaps?”

“No, the Merryweathers are a dying breed - thank God - as I recall they have little or no extended family.” Coeur de Noir said thoughtfully, “I wonder if…well, perhaps it is, after all, eight years is an awfully long time - fetch the book with the Merryweather tree in.” Robin’s father kept a book with a copy of the Merryweather family tree in for two reasons; the first, because he always said that the better you know your enemies, the easier it is to defeat them; the second, because he took great delight in crossing off a name whenever a Merryweather died - be it by a De Noir hand or not.

The book was brought by a serving girl and placed upon the table in front of Robin’s father who opened it at the back were the names of the most recent Merryweathers were recorded.

“Let’s see…Sir Tristram Merryweather - dead these three years past, Lady Elizabeth Merryweather - died yesterday, their eldest son, George Merryweather - God knows where he is, their other son, Benjamin Merryweather - let’s hope he joins his mother soon - Aha! Here she is: Catherine Merryweather, she’ll be eighteen years old now. Did this girl look about eighteen?”

“Yes.” said Richard.

“You really think that it’s her?” Robin said in astonishment, “Where has she been all this time? I thought from her clothes that she had an air of London about her.”

“I had no idea you were so privy to the latest London fashions, Robin.” Coeur de Noir said, fixing him with a frosty glare. The men snorted with laughter and Robin felt his cheeks redden.

“But you’re right,” his father continued, “As I recall, her mother sent her to a London boarding school when she turned ten.”

“What if her mother sent her to London _with_ the pearls, to keep them safe and out of our way?” Henry said.

“Does she even know about the pearls or the feud or anything?” Robin muttered.

“Now there’s an idea, Henry!” Coeur de Noir considered, ignoring his son, “I wouldn’t put it past a Merryweather to pull a sly trick like that: we spend the last eight years searching the countryside for the pearls, and all along they’re wrapped around the throat of a pretty London debutant.”

“So what now? Do we kidnap Missy-Lady-whatsherface?” Dulac said, tapping the girl’s name on the page.

“Of course, and when we do, I don’t think it will take much interrogating to make her give up the pearls.”

“And if she doesn’t have them?” Robin said.

“Then we hold her ransom. I’m sure Sir Benjamin would willingly give us anything to get his precious baby sister back. There’s no need to start planning yet, I’m sure she’ll wander straight into our hands sooner or later, silly girls often do.” They all laughed at this and sat down to continue the meal, all except Robin who was in a bad mood after being humiliated by his father and wasn’t hungry anyway, so he walked from the hall and to his bedroom.

Robin’s bedroom was in Castle de Noir’s eastern tower and thus the room was perfectly circular, the floor and walls were of thick dusty stone and the windows were so thin and high that the room was in an almost constant state of darkness, meaning that in just one month Robin would go through hundreds of candles. All the furniture in the room made of dark mahogany wood and carved in the gothic style. 

He threw himself upon the four-poster bed with its blood red curtains and sheets and pulled from his pocket the red scarf which he had plucked from the wind earlier that morning.

They had been playing at highwaymen and hanging around at the roadside, waiting to waylay any passing peasants when the carriage had thundered past and the scarf had fallen from the girl’s hair - he still had playing over and over again in his mind the memory of the moment when the wind had ripped the scarf away and all those glorious black curls had come tumbling out, framing her pale face - quite without thinking he had put his hand up and snatched the scarf from mid-air. Then the carriage was gone and when he turned around he found Richard and Henry staring at him oddly so he felt compelled to say, “Look, free scarf!” to justify his behaviour.

All the while in the hall with his father, his fingers had been itching to touch the scarf where it was stuffed in his inner jacket pocket, he could feel it almost burning a hole where it was pressed against his chest. And now, as he slid the scarlet material between his fingers, he felt the sudden urge to say her name, “Catherine,” he said, tasting the word, “Catherine Merryweather.”

“Who?” a voice said, startling him. Robin hurried to bury the scarf amongst his sheets and sit up. A serving maid was peeping shyly around the door.

“Begging your pardon, Master Robin, I noticed that you left the hall without eating so I brought some food for you.” she said, nudging the door open and bustling in to place on his bedside table a tray with a bowl of stew and a heel of bread upon it.

“Thank you, Rosie.” Robin said. But instead of leaving, the girl sat down on the edge of his bed and smiled cheerfully at him. Robin raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I thought you might prefer eating alone tonight.” she said. He decided not to point out the fact he was hardly eating alone with her sitting there bothering him.

“It was very considerate of you, Rosie.” Robin grunted, leaning across the bed to reach for the bowl and spoon.

“You really shouldn’t let your father get you down, you know.” she continued gently.

Robin snorted cynically, “I’m used to him being disappointed in me.”

“Who is Catherine?” Rosie asked tentatively.

“The Merryweather girl.” Robin said, dipping the bread in the stew to soften it, “Her carriage passed us on the road today.”

“Richard says she is very pretty. Do you think her pretty?” she asked in a small voice.

Robin shrugged, “I think she’s certainly pleasing to look at.” The girl looked crestfallen and Robin stared at her, Rosie was rather pretty herself, he supposed, with her blonde ringlets and womanly curves. Lately she seemed to be taking a special interest in him, going out of her way to be the one to serve him or be kind to him or engage him in conversation. As heir to the De Noir clan, he would of course marry someone who befitted his rank, but it was hardly frowned upon for a young man to engage in amorous activities with a few serving girls from time to time - in fact, it was practically expected of him. Richard did it all the time - “getting in some practice” as he called it, for when he gets married off. Lately though, Robin had lost all interest in the girls of Castle de Noir, besides, he wasn’t set on demeaning himself by starting something with one of Richard’s cast-offs - and Richard had _a lot_ of cast-offs, leaving slim pickings for Robin to choose from should he have been inclined. And all the girls from Silverydew were incredibly dull and would never let a De Noir come within ten feet of them let alone enter into a relationship with one. It was because of this that Coeur de Noir was convinced that there was something wrong with his son, for it seemed inconceivable to him that any sane, red-blooded young De Noir male could be so indifferent to girls.

“I’d better go.” Rosie murmured, “Good night, Master Robin.” She sloped from the room with her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. As soon as she was gone, Robin retrieved the scarf from where he had hidden it amongst the bed sheets, laying it out across the bed in front of him to contemplate while he ate.

After he had caught the scarf, he and the other boys had been curious to learn the identity of its owner and so they had followed the carriage and found themselves at Moonacre Manor. Through the gaps in the gate to the estate they had watched as the girl descended from the carriage and was greeted by the pompous Sir Benjamin Merryweather, whom she embraced before following him inside the Manor. The boys were now at a loss as to what to do next so they began to wander aimlessly around the walls to the estate until they came to a section of the wall were parts for the brickwork had fallen away to reveal the thick curtain of ivy which grew over the other side of the wall - if they looked carefully, they could just about see the gardens on the other side through the leaves. Directly opposite the wall stood a white garden bench, Robin felt a shiver of excitement when he realised that the girl was sitting alone upon it. She was crying. In fact, she didn’t look well at all, her pale skin had turned a sickly greenish colour and she seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. She leant forward and hung her head between her knees the way people often did to deter a fainting spell.

Henry, never able to stay quiet for long, shuffled impatiently, “Who is that?” he whispered, elbowing Richard in the side to attract his attention.

“I don’t know.” Richard replied.

“Where is she from?” Henry asked, unaware of the ridiculousness of the question.

“I said I don’t-” Richard started to say crossly but Robin interrupted.

“London.” he said. All the while they had been bickering, Robin had not taken his eyes from the weeping girl, he had appraised her carefully, noting that her dress - though a mourning gown - was of an expensive cut and made from a very fine material, he noticed how it differed from the typical dresses girls from Silverydew wore; the skirt seemed a little heavier and appeared to consist of several different types of material laid one over another, topped with a sheer overlay; the collar was higher than that of a dress worn by one of the village girls, indeed, it covered her entire throat and stopped beneath her chin; on her hands she wore delicate fingerless gloves of black lace, the kind that respectable ladies were never seen in public without in the bigger towns and cities. 

“How do you know that?” Henry asked.  Robin rolled his eyes, the other boy could be so gormless at times!

“Look at her clothes,” he explained deliberately, “No girls around here wear clothes like that. Things are different there.” Yes, things were _very_ different in London, most respectable peoples’ lives were ruled by ludicrous rules of etiquette and decorum and fashions could shift from the sublime to the ridiculous in a matter of a day.

The girl raised her head and stared at the place in the ivy they stood behind with an expression of bewildered horror.

“Your father will want to know about this.” Henry prattled, stupidly not realising that the girl could hear every word they were saying, “Do you suppose he'll know who she is Robi-”

“Shut up!” Robin cut him short, slapping Henry on the back of the head - the last thing he wanted was for the girl to hear his name and work out who they were, “She's walking towards us! She can hear us!”

The girl stopped before the wall and stared amongst the ivy. She stood for a while, nibbling her full lower lip in confusion and worriment and not realising that all the while she was staring unseeingly straight at them. Suddenly, Henry and Richard erupted into fits of laughter at the same time, startling the girl and making her stagger backwards away from them.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Robin hissed, emphasising each word by either kicking out at Henry or punching Richard on the shoulder. He soon came to realise though, that his assault was doing nothing to silence them and was in fact making them laugh all the more, they did stop, however, when the sound of vicious snarling reached their ears from the other side of the wall. The Demon Dog was standing beside the girl and growling ferociously, its eyes flashing red and its teeth bared. Richard and Henry both ran away hastily then, and after one final glance at the girl, Robin followed them.

Robin finished his stew and placed the empty bow and spoon back on the tray on his bedside table. He picked up the scarf and fingered the soft material thoughtfully, for some reason unknown to him, he nursed a desperate longing to be the one to catch her - he told himself that he probably just wanted to prove himself to his father. After another moment of thought - this time of the Merryweather girl’s full red lips - he hid the scarf out of sight beneath his pillow and rose from the bed and stretched until a particular bone in his back cracked, whereupon he bounded from the room to go in search of the other boys, having decided that he was in the mind to do something fun.                 


	6. Chapter Five

As it turned out, Catherine was confined to her bed for a week and was thus unable to pay her respects to her mother in the Doctor's surgery. Her sickness alternated between bouts of delirious fever to moments manic hysteria. Through her delirium she was subconsciously aware that someone was caring for her: feeding her soup when she could stomach it, pressing a glass of cold water to her lips, dabbing her forehead with a cool damp cloth, murmuring soothingly while either clasping her hand or gently stroking her hair.

On the day of her mother’s funeral she awoke - though she was hardly aware that she had been asleep at all - and rolled over to face the pale yellow dawn sunlight which was filtering into her room through the sheer curtains, feeling that sense of euphoria one feels on the first day of wellness after a long sickness. To her displeasure, she found herself lying in a tangle of dirty bed sheets, someone - most probably Benjamin - had put her to bed in her undergarments, though he had been thoughtful enough to remove her corset and numerous petticoats, leaving her in her chemise which was creased and damp with sweat. All in all, she felt utterly revolting and decided that she would immediately take a hot bath. She kicked back the covers, slowly stood then staggered from the room and down the hall to her own bathroom - her legs were still a little weak and shaking.  

Moonacre was one of the few great Manor houses at the time which had taken the daring leap in having indoor plumbing fitted, thus Catherine’s bathroom was fitted with a toilet, sink and an extravagant claw foot bathtub which stood in the centre of the room - though the room still retained its elegant fireplace from the times when it had been traditional for maids to heat buckets of water and pour them into a copper bath. Catherine let the water run in the bathtub while she inspected the array of expensive toiletries which had been bought and laid out upon the sideboard for the new lady of the house. She added a bath oil scented with jasmine to the hot water then slipped the chemise from her shoulders and stepped out of it, leaving it bundled where she had stood. With a sigh of relief, she lowered her body into the piping hot bath. Steam cured upwards thickly, caressing her skin and making the room hot and stuffy.

“Catherine?” Benjamin called, tapping at the door, “Catherine, what on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking a bath, of course.” she answered, scrubbing at her neck with a flannel soaked in lavender scented lotion.

“At five o’clock in the morning?”

Catherine glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and realised that her brother was quite correct.

“You should be resting.” Benjamin said, stifling a yawn, “Go back to bed for a few hours after your bath. You can eat your breakfast in bed before getting ready for the funeral.”

“I couldn’t possibly get back under those filthy covers after having such a lovely bath! I may as well go outside and roll in the mud! I’ll take my breakfast downstairs with you.”

“No, you need to rest.”

“Benjamin, I’m feeling entirely better and it’ll do me no good to lie back in bed again. I’ll take a walk in the gardens after breakfast to get some fresh air.”

“We’ll see.” Benjamin said, succumbing to another yawn.

Catherine caught sight of her reflection in the tall standing mirror across the room and shrieked: her hair stood out from her head in a mass of wild knots and tangles like a thick briar patch.

“What’s the matter?” Benjamin asked quickly, fearful that she had taken ill again.

“My hair! My hair is an awful mess! I look like a madwoman!” she wailed, reaching for a nearby porcelain jug and filling it with water to pour over her head. On the other side of the door Benjamin made and exasperated sound and walked away, muttering to himself as he went.

After washing her hair, Catherine climbed out of the bath and wrapped herself in a large soft white towel. She skittered down the hall to her room - thankfully there was no one around to witness her running the halls in such a state of undress - and changed into a clean chemise and a silk bathrobe in the style of a Japanese kimono with pink cherry blossom flowers printed on a pale blue background. She sat down at her dressing table and set about combing her damp hair, knowing full well that if she didn’t do so immediately it would dry in tangles again.

She walked barefoot downstairs and found Benjamin waiting for her at the dining table. He looked rather worse for wear himself, his naturally pale complexion had a somewhat waxy quality about it and his eyes were outlined by dark shadows. 

“You look rather ill yourself.” Catherine said, taking a seat at the table.

“I am quite well.” Benjamin said stiffly.

“Your brother stayed up day and night nursing you through your fever this past week.” Digweed muttered in her ear as he leant over to place a bowl of porridge in front of her, “Of course, he’d never admit to it.”

Digweed shuffled away and Catherine began to stir some sugar into her porridge, “Did you get any sleep at all then?” she said casually, not looking up from her bowl. From the corner of her eye she saw Benjamin freeze, spoon halfway to his mouth, she glanced at him and saw that he was glaring murderously at Digweed, having cottoned on that his butler had ratted him out.

Benjamin pointedly avoided looking Catherine in the eyes, “A couple of hours on Wednesday night and then last night once the fever had ran its course.” he muttered, lying his spoon against the side his bowl.

“Thank you, Benjamin, I very much appreciate your caring for me.”

“Doctor Perrins left a tonic for you to drink. He said it will see you through today.” as her brother said this, Digweed was immediately by her side, placing a small bottle of green glass upon the table next to her hand.

“You called for a doctor for me? I don’t remember being treated by him.”

“You were rather delirious. Doctor Perrins runs the practice in Silverydew, you’ll meet him today when…” Benjamin trailed off uncertainly.

“When I go to see mother’s body.” Catherine finished.

“Yes.” Benjamin said, clearing his throat and turning his attention back to his breakfast.

Catherine ate her porridge and then a plate of scrambled egg on toast, washed down with a cup of milky tea. When she announced her intention to take a walk in the gardens to get some fresh air, Benjamin insisted on escorting her, lest she take ill again, but wouldn’t allow her to set foot outside until she had drank her tonic. And so, Catherine had grudgingly drank the medicine in one gulp, finding the sticky brown liquid to have a rather strong and unpleasant bitter taste - just as she had suspected all along.

After walking in the gardens, Catherine and her brother went upstairs to change into their funeral clothes. Catherine was pleased to find that while she had been ill, someone had took the initiative to have her mourning gown washed. She took her time dressing, selecting clean stockings and petticoats from her wardrobe and putting them on - she ended up having to forgo wearing a corset as there was no one to lace it for her - taking her gown from where it had been folded over the back of her armchair and stepping into it, carefully doing up the buttons and tying ribbons at the front and the sash on her waist at the back. She sat at her dressing table and carefully pinned all her hair up then affixed a black veil atop the curls; the veil was long and made of a thick sheer material which rendered her face virtually unseeable, as was the style of mourning clothes at that time. Before leaving the room she put on her black lace gloves and picked up a black reticule.

Outside, Benjamin and Digweed were waiting beside the carriage, Benjamin cut a handsome and morose figure in his fine black frock coat, snow white shirt with black waistcoat and cravat. Digweed had changed into an old greatcoat, dusty and threadbare, it hung heavily on his stooped frame.

The journey into Silverydew seemed to take forever. They rode in silence and Catherine wished that Benjamin would talk to her, console her and tell her that it would be all right. She had never seen a dead person before and the thought of seeing her mother terrified her and made her feel sick to her stomach. She wished she didn’t have to go into the Doctor’s surgery - or the funeral, for that matter; she wished that she could just turn around and walk away and keep walking, across the fields and far away to a place where she wasn’t Lady Catherine Merryweather who was expected to say goodbye to her mother’s corpse then watch her be put into a box and that box be lowered into the ground and covered in soil and worms and other kinds of disgusting, blind crawling things. But more than anything she wished that her brother would talk to her.

The carriage stopped outside the Doctor’s surgery and they were greeted by Doctor Perrins himself. Doctor Perrins was an awkward man in his early thirties. With his tall thin frame and thatch of straw coloured hair which stuck out at all angles, he reminded Catherine very much of a gawky scarecrow or some gangly bird - perhaps a stork.

Benjamin helped her down from the carriage and the Doctor stepped forward to introduce himself, “Arthur Perrins, my lady,” he said, shaking her hand, “My condolences. If it is not too brazen to mention, you are looking infinitely better compared to the last time I saw you.”

“No doubt due to your excellent care and the tonic you left me. I apologise that we were not formally introduced on that occasion, Doctor Perrins, I confess I hardly remember anything from my days of illness.”

“Not at all, my lady! It couldn’t be helped! You had gone into shock. The worst case I have ever seen in all my years as a physician!”

“Yes. Well…”

“Oh! This way please, Lady Merryweather!” Doctor Perrins exclaimed, leaping to open the surgery door for her.

“Are you coming Benjamin?” Catherine said, turning to her brother.

“I have already paid my respects.” Benjamin replied before disappearing back into the carriage, “Take your time.” he called out as an afterthought. Catherine wanted to cling to him and beg him to go in with her, or perhaps beg him not to make her go in at all. But she didn’t want him or Doctor Perrins to think her a coward, so instead she took a deep breath and followed Doctor Perrins into the surgery.

The Doctor led her across the waiting room and through a door which opened onto a long corridor. They walked down this corridor to the door at the very end, Catherine knew exactly what was behind it and she would have gladly signed away her soul to the Devil if it meant she didn’t have to see it, but then Doctor Perrins opened the door. The room was icy cold and lined with off-white tiles, a small window high in the wall partially lit the room with a dim grey light. Of the three tables there, two were empty; atop the one in the centre was a coffin covered with a white sheet.

Catherine stood in the doorway, awkwardly fiddling with her reticule and looking anywhere but at the coffin, “It’s so cold.” she said finally.

“Yes. It preserves the-” Doctor Perrins stopped short, realising that explaining how storing cadavers at a low temperature helped to stave off the process of decomposition to the daughter of said corpse would have been most indelicate. Instead, he hurried forward and drew the sheet back from the coffin gently, then left the room with a murmured “I’ll just be outside. Please take all the time you need.”, closing the door behind him.

It was a long time before Catherine built up the courage to approach the table. When she did, she did so with her eyes closed, and again it took her a long time to build up the courage to open her eyes even a crack so as to gaze upon her mother’s body through her eyelashes. But she did and when she was sure that she had accustomed herself to the sight and she was not going to vomit, she opened her eyes properly.

Despite being in her fifties when she died, Lady Elizabeth Merryweather was still a great beauty, in fact, at a glance one might say she hadn't changed at all since the family photograph now standing on Catherine’s bedside table had been taken. However, if Catherine looked close enough then she could see the signs of change: silver threads of hair ran occasionally through her mane of chestnut curls and faint lines were just beginning to form at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Of course, death and the illness had changed her also; her formally luminous pale skin was now an odd mixture of white, blue and yellow; her almond shaped eyes had sunk into her skull and were framed by long black lashes and purple circles; her cheeks had sunk also, causing her fine cheekbones to stick out sharply; the tendons and bones stuck up grotesquely on the backs of her hands, almost like the claws of some bird of prey, yes, these were the hands of a dead woman. But it must be reiterated that despite all these slight imperfections she was still very beautiful.

Catherine bent forward and kissed her mother’s forehead; it was so cold that for one terrible moment it put her in mind of a sheet of ice and she worried that she might never be able to pry her lips away. But of course she did.

Outside, the hearse had arrived, the horses tossed their heads, making the black plumes of feathers attached to them to flap and flutter. The pallbearers took off their top hats and bowed to her when she stepped out of the Doctor's surgery, murmuring their condolences. Catherine climbed unaided into the carriage.

“Are you well?” Benjamin asked when she flopped down beside him.

“Yes.” Catherine whispered, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping the tears from her eyes.

They watched as the pallbearers disappeared into the surgery and returned carrying the coffin upon their shoulders. A few minutes later, time in which the pallbearers slid the coffin into the back of the hearse, the carriage took off at a slow and steady pace. The carriage passed by villagers who stood on the streets paying their respects, they stood as though to attention with their heads bowed; the men had removed their hats and the women held the children still by their sides.

The carriage and hearse finally stopped at the Church of Mary the Virgin. Catherine was astonished by the sheer number of people congregated in the churchyard waiting for the funeral to begin, everyone from the humblest villagers to lords and ladies whom her mother had socialised with at the glittering London balls she often attended. 

She and Benjamin followed the pallbearers as they carried the coffin into church and laid it before the alter. Benjamin led her to the family’s pew, directly beneath the pulpit.

“Where is George? Will he come?” Catherine whispered to Benjamin while the rest of the mourners took their seats. Benjamin merely gave a dismissive one shouldered shrug, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. Catherine was about to berate him for being so blasé when at that moment the Parson stepped into the pulpit.

The service was long and the Parson delivered it beautifully, describing the late Lady Merryweather as a beautiful and energetic woman, charming and instantly liked by all who met her. But Catherine found it very hard to cry any more for her mother, who, in truth, she barely knew. After all, this was the woman who had sent her to boarding school for the last eight years of her life, all those important years of growing up were not spent in her family home, but in the anonymous halls of the Marborough Academy. Catherine could count on one hand the number of visits home she had during those eight years.

Instead, Catherine kept glancing to the pew door, expecting George to come walking through it any moment. But he never did. She noticed something etched into the wood of the pew beside her and ran her fingers across it: it was an image of a cat, carved deep into the wood. She suddenly remembered a hot summer day when she was five years old, she had been restless from the heat and bored by the long sermon so Benjamin had taken out his pocket knife and carved the cat in the wood to amuse her. It stood, angular and scrawny, with its long tail straight in the air and a crookedly fierce expression on its face. It was her, a cat stood for Catherine because Benjamin used to always refer to her as ‘Cat’ or some other feline equivalent, George caught on and soon started calling her a catastrophe, maintaining that it counted because it contained the word ‘cat’. When she was first sent to boarding school, Catherine used to sign all of her letters to Benjamin with a drawing of a cat instead of her name, but that soon fizzled out as she got older and when Benjamin started sending less letters for some reason.

When the service ended, the pallbearers carried the coffin outside and lowered it into the waiting open grave which had been dug in the family plot next to the grave of her father, the Parson read a prayer and she and Benjamin each threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin before allowing the gravediggers to fill in the rest. And so the funeral of Lady Elizabeth Merryweather was over.

Catherine stood with Benjamin outside the church and shook hands with the mourners, only half listening to their murmured condolences. The villagers of Silverydew seemed to be a kind and friendly lot, many of them remembered Catherine from when she had lived at Moonacre when she was a little girl and were not offended in the slightest when she confessed that she could remember hardly anyone; they introduced themselves with either a bow or a curtsy, expressed their condolences and told her how pleased they were that she had returned to Moonacre. Phillip Hadaway said a few gentle words to her and informed her brother that the reading of the late Lady Merryweather’s will would have to be moved to a later date as the solicitor had some urgent business to see to for which he must depart to London immediately. Doctor Perrins shook her hand and stammered that should she take ill again they must not hesitate to call on him again and that he had plenty more tonic should she need it, Catherine assured him that she was feeling perfectly healthy (she prayed that she wouldn’t relapse into shock again, for she dearly did not want to drink any more foul tonic!). Josiah Flitch was there wearing a moth-eaten old black overcoat which looked as though it might have belonged to his grandfather, his dark hair was slicked back with a liberal amount of hair oil and his fingers were once again stained with black ink. He flapped towards Catherine like some great overgrown bat, expressed his sympathies, gave another little spasm of a bow then flapped away again.

Catherine left her brother conversing with some stuffy old Duke whom her mother had once had a luncheon with and went for a wander around the churchyard in the sunshine, reading the names on the headstones as she walked. She had become particularly absorbed in reading the headstone of an entire family killed in a house fire fifty years before when she became aware that two people were having a conversation nearby and she could hear every word of it.

“A lovely service was it not, Lady Stratford?”

“Yes indeed, a lovely service, Lady Milles-Coombe.” It was two ladies whom her mother had once socialised with in London. They were both in their fifties and dressed in full mourning clothes, including rather dated bonnets, Catherine considered that her own mother would have been livid that they would wear something so unfashionable to her funeral. They stood at the church gate, gossiping and clucking away like a couple of old hens. They had no idea that Catherine was there because she stood hidden behind the tall headstone of the burned family.

“An utter disgrace that the eldest boy couldn’t turn up for his own mother’s funeral, though!”

“Oh yes, Lady Milles-Coombe, a disgrace! But, in my most humblest of opinions, that one was always destined for scandal, even as a boy he shamed his family on numerous occasions.”

“I recall encountering him once at a picnic held by Lady Walpole and-”

“Who is she again, my dear? Her name rings a bell but I can’t quite remember.”

“Well, she _was_ virtually unknown and married to some Admiral in the British Navy, but when he died somewhere up the Panama Canal she married Lord Walpole and squandered away most of his fortune. They say money can’t buy good breeding and, heavens, they were right! She is the most course and common woman I have ever met! Anyway, Lord Walpole eventually died of the drink and now she’s a Duchess! Married some Duke last autumn!”

“Good heavens! She’s like one of those beastly spiders that they have in the tropics! What are they called again? Never mind, I am sure it will come to me later.”

“Quite. She’s probably had more husbands than most of us have had hot dinners! As I was saying, it was at a picnic that she held on May Day some years ago that I first encountered the eldest Merryweather boy, and I could immediately tell that he was a bad one. Something about the eyes, you felt as if he could see through all your clothes when he was looking at you!”

“Well, have you heard some of the stories about his actions in London? Nothing but drink, gambling and women!” 

“But his brother seems a responsible young man, and his sister is sweet little thing, very pretty to the eye.”

“Yes, very pretty. Actually, I am thinking that she would make a suitable match for my youngest son Nathanial.”

“Good heavens, Lady Stratford! I was just thinking the same for my son Byron! They do say that great minds think alike, don’t they?”

“They certainly do say that, Lady Milles-Coombe, they certainly do! Well, I am certain that the Lady Catherine Merryweather will not want for suitors, a fine girl like that will have all the eligible men in the county vying for her hand. And I wouldn’t be surprised if men from around the country and perhaps even abroad make offers!”

Catherine turned away, she didn’t want to hear anymore. Her mother was barely in her grave and those disgusting women were already making plans and speculating on her own wedding! It was despicable, vile, tactless and…Catherine pressed her hands to her face and stumbled sobbing in the direction of where Benjamin stood outside the church.

She staggered blindly along until a gentle hand on her shoulder stilled her. Catherine moved her hands from her face and found her looking up at the Parson himself. The Parson was a tall, thin man with olive-brown skin and wild white hair which brushed his shoulders.

“Lady Merryweather.” he said, gently taking her hand and smiling sympathetically, “I must express my sorrow at the death of your mother. She was a fine woman. You seem a trifle agitated, my lady, shall I fetch Doctor Perrins?”

“Those women!” Catherine sobbed, waving her arm in the direction of the two gossips, “They said the most awful things about George and then they started saying things about me. They’re nothing but horrid old witches!”

“Calm yourself, my lady, calm yourself! You mustn’t say such things about others. Yes, those women unknowingly said some hurtful, tactless things, but you mustn’t let the foolishness of others upset you. I am sure they meant well by being here to pay tribute to your mother.”

The Parson patted Catherine’s shoulder comfortingly as she calmed down and stopped crying. When she had stopped sniffling and the last of her tears were wiped away with his very own handkerchief, he looked at her meaningfully and sternly, yet without malice, “And I think you have learnt an important lesson about eavesdropping today, my lady?”

Catherine was astonished at his frankness, nevertheless, she nodded her head in agreement. He was right after all, if she hadn’t been eavesdropping then she wouldn’t have heard anything to upset her.

“Ah! You have the look of a true sun Merryweather!” the Parson exclaimed, staring carefully into her face, “Just like your brother and father! Your eldest brother was of course one of the moon Merryweathers.”

“Forgive me, Sir, but I don’t follow.”

“All Merryweathers fall into two categories; the sun Merryweathers, with their dark hair and dark eyes and great height; and the moon Merryweathers, with their auburn hair, silver eyes and petite frame.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, Sir, for the service. It was lovely.” Catherine said, giving the Parson a small, genuine smile, for she found herself liking him very much. She turned to leave and join her brother who stood hovering beside the church gate, waiting for her to finish talking.

“A fine young woman,” the Parson said, gripping her hand tightly, “But a little untrusting and easily swayed by vanity and distraction. I saw you glancing around during the funeral, my dear.”

“I was looking for my elder brother.” Catherine stuttered, shamefaced.

 “Yes, of course.” the old man said with a reassuring smile, “Know that you may visit whenever you wish: the Church and the Parsonage are open for all.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Catherine beamed, then turned and ran to catch up with Benjamin.

“I sent Digweed home with the carriage. I thought a walk might do you some good. It isn't far.” Benjamin said before turning and marching up the lane. Catherine had to run to catch up to him.

“George didn't come to the funeral.” she finally said. The lane they were walking along was lined with trees, the morning had turned warm and sunny with a light wind which made the branches sway a little.

“I didn’t expect him to.” Benjamin replied.

Catherine glanced up at him sharply then away again, “You never did like him much.” she stated.

“After the way he used to torment you when you were a child, I'm surprised that _you_ ever did.” Benjamin retorted.

_Catherine was five years old. She had been skipping throughout the gardens playing one of her silly imaginary games when she had come across her brother George standing beside the lily pond, his feet planted apart and his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly in deep contemplation of the water._

_"What are you doing George?" she had asked._

_"Looking at the fishies." was her brother's reply._

_"What fishies?" Catherine queried sceptically._

_George turned to face her, flicking a stray piece of copper hair out his eyes, "Don't you know?" he said, looking genuinely shocked, "The gardeners have just put some pretty colourful fishies in the pond!"_

_"Where? Where!" Catherine cried, pushing past him to stand at the edge of the pond and look for the fish._

_It only took one sharp kick up the backside from George to send Catherine falling head first into the water. She resurfaced a moment later, kicking and screaming, her black curls plastered to her face._

_It was one of the gardeners who ended up dragging her out by the scruff the neck, having ran to investigate the source of the screams and discovered Catherine thrashing around in the pond while her eldest brother stood cackling at the side._

_Catherine was immediately dumped in a hot bath and forced to spend the rest of the day in bed for fear that she might catch pneumonia. George was called to his father's study and given a long lecture on how he, at twenty-three years old, was far too old to be playing such dangerous tricks on his little sister. Benjamin, feeling that his brother deserved more than a mere lecture, ended up picking a fight later that evening with George._

_That night little Catherine woke to find Benjamin's face, sporting a black eye and a split lip, peering out of the darkness at her. He had snuck to her room to give her a cuddle and a foil wrapped chocolate and to tell her with a grin which cracked his scabbed lip causing it to start bleeding again, that he had successfully fought for and defended her honour._

“He was perfectly beastly to you as a child.” Benjamin argued.

“Not all the time,” Catherine said thoughtfully, “Sometimes he was lovely. Remember when he made me a blanket fort and stayed to have a tea party with me and my dolls? And then there's the time there was that horrible thunderstorm when you were away in London with father. I snuck into his room and he let me cuddle up in bed with him because I was scared.”

“Remember when he threw the doll mother and father gave you for your eighth birthday in the fireplace? You adored that doll.” Benjamin said crisply.

“He wasn't always mean.” Catherine insisted, “Perhaps he was unavoidably detained. Perhaps your letter never arrived.”

“I highly doubt that the letter could have just gone missing. Surely he must have heard the news from someone? There were a lot of society people at the funeral, her death was probably big news, how could he not have gotten wind of it? There was also an obituary in every major paper. ” Benjamin pointed out.

Catherine ignored him, “I shall write to him myself. He will definitely come if I write to him.”


	7. Chapter Six

_She was walking down a long darkened corridor. At the end there was a door, a sliver of light was visible around all its edges. And still she kept walking towards the door, never getting any closer, just walking on and on through the blackness._

Catherine shuddered awake. The Sun was shining outside, she glanced at the clock on the mantle piece across the room and saw that it was almost nine in the morning. She rolled over onto her side and wrapped the covers tightly around her, staring despondently straight ahead at nothing in particular. It had been two weeks since her mother's funeral and she still felt empty inside. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was now an orphan, or maybe it was because the words of those awful old women at the funeral were still ringing in her ears. With a sigh, she decided that she really should get out of bed and so she regrettably untangled herself from her cocoon of covers and padded across the room to put on her robe which she had left on the back of her dressing table chair.

Half an hour later, after bathing, Catherine drifted barefoot downstairs, still swathed in her silk robe. Benjamin was sitting at the dining table already eating his breakfast. To her horror she saw that he was wearing a grey-blue frock coat and an inky blue velvet waistcoat with a blue cravat tied haphazardly about his throat.  _Colour,_ Catherine thought,  _he is wearing colour!_

"What…what are your wearing?" she cried. Benjamin glanced down at himself and shrugged.

"You aren't wearing mourning clothes!" she hissed.

Benjamin sighed and put down his fork, "Catherine, it has been two weeks since the funeral. How long do you propose is the correct length of time one should wear black?"

"A year?"

"Do you remember how long mother wore full mourning clothes when father died?"

"A week." Catherine croaked.

"A week. Did she care about protocol? No. She was too interested in wearing her fine clothes and going to parties and being beautiful."

"But-"

"Mother wouldn't mind if you stopped wearing black for her." Benjamin said gently, "Besides, this is the country. The mourning period isn't half as long here as it is in London."

"Oh." Catherine said, turning to leave.

"Aren't you going to eat something?"

"No, I'm not hungry." she said in a faint voice.

Benjamin stood up and strode towards her, "Catherine, I really must insist that you sit down at the table and eat something. You haven't eaten properly in two weeks. It isn't healthy. Sit." He steered her towards a chair and pushed her forcefully down by her shoulders to make her sit.

"Very well." she said, in that same faint voice. Digweed came and placed a plate of poached eggs and toast in front of her. As soon as she caught scent of the food, she realised how hungry she truly was and began wolfing it down. Satisfied that she had found her appetite, Benjamin returned to his breakfast.

"Another thing which isn't healthy, Catherine, is you spending all your days cooped up indoors moping about the house. As of today you will spend every day outside as much as you possibly can, and will have four square meals a day." Benjamin said.

"Yes, Benjamin." Catherine said happily, through a mouthful of toast. She considered how amazing it is that a good meal never fails to improve a person's mood.

"As a matter of fact, I have something for you which I bought to encourage you to spend more time outside."

"A present?"

"I suppose so. I will show it to you as soon as you have dressed-" Benjamin didn't even get to finish his sentence for Catherine was out the room in a flash and bounding upstairs to dress. If there was one thing Catherine loved most in the world, it was being given presents.

Catherine burst into her room and threw her robe upon the bed, underneath it she was already wearing her chemise and she began to furiously dig around in her wardrobe for clean petticoats and a dress to wear. Her hand lingered for a moment on her black mourning gown but she changed her mind and chose instead a dress of pale jade green. The dress was light and summery, with a square neck and a skirt which rippled to her mid-shins and a red sash at the waist. Catherine sat at her dressing table and hurriedly put on pale stockings and buttoned her white ankle boots. She then combed her hair, letting the ink black curls cascade freely down her back and tying a green ribbon amongst them. In a moment of inspiration, she opened her jewellery box and began to hunt for one particular thing. Two days before, Benjamin had came to her room and presented her with a carved wooden box, inside turned out to be her mother's prized jewellery. He told her that everything now belonged to her. Catherine had emptied the treasures into her own Rose Quartz jewellery box before returning the empty box to her mother's lonely room.

Now, as she opened her jewellery box, she couldn't help but feel momentarily dazzled by the items inside and the memories they held; a string of creamy pearls, handed down from mother to daughter for as long as anyone could remember; a diamond necklace, the chain so thin that when worn, it was almost invisible, giving the impression that the jewels had been scattered at random like water droplets across the wearer's throat; a set of bangles fashioned out of ivory which Catherine's father had brought back from India; a pair of pearl drop earrings which her mother had worn for the family photograph; a golden pocket watch carved with the image of a unicorn, a gift from Catherine's father to his wife on their wedding day; dozens of rings, rings of diamonds and of topaz, of opals and emeralds and blood red rubies.

Finally, she found what she was looking for: a silver brooch which sparkled with diamonds and emeralds, Catherine pinned it with pride to the front of her dress.

Downstairs, Benjamin was just finishing of his breakfast when Catherine hurtled back into the dining room, "Hurry up! Hurry! I'm dressed, I'm ready for my present! What is it?" she cried, tugging at his arm.

Benjamin led her out of the house and outside to the stables. The stable yard was cobbled with smooth, rounded stones with tufts of moss growing in-between them, a dovecot stood in one corner and a stone well in the centre. Inside the stables, it was dim and slightly chilly, the morning sunlight hadn't reached this side of the house yet. They walked past the stall of Benjamin's own black stallion Hercules, and to the last stall in the row. As Catherine approached, a pink nose stuck out over the stall and she cried out in excitement, when Benjamin had led her to the stables she had immediately guessed that he had bought her a horse, and now her suspicions were confirmed.

The mare was tall with long graceful legs, she was completely pure white with a pink nose which snuffled inquisitively at Catherine and Benjamin. Catherine was struck dumb, she reached out and patted that twitching pink nose and then ran her fingers through the smooth snow-white hair of the horse's mane.

"What will you name her?" Benjamin asked.

"I was thinking perhaps 'Artemis'." Catherine murmured.

"Goddess of the hunt and the Moon. Very appropriate."

"But I shan't be doing any hunting on her. I hate blood sports." Catherine said vehemently, "Oh, Benjamin, this is wonderful! She's beautiful! Thank you! Thank you ever so much!" She threw herself at her bother and embraced him, holding on tightly for as long as she could until he coughed embarrassedly.

"May I ride her now?" she begged.

"If you wish. But do not ride near the forest." Benjamin replied. He showed her how to saddle the horse, which stood patiently as they worked, and soon Catherine was riding out of the stable yard and across the fields of the Merryweather estate.

Catherine rode around the outskirts of the estate until she came to the gap in the stone wall which had been left open for access to the forest in a time when her ancestors has frequently hunted there.

"He told me I wasn't to go in the forest." Catherine murmured, half to herself and half to Artemis, "But what's so special about the forest? Why is it forbidden?" She stared for a while at the trees which loomed up above her, their branches rippling in the wind.

"Oh well," she said, slipping down from the saddle, "There's nothing for it, Artemis, I shall have to explore. Rules were made to be broken, after all. I shan't be away long, girl." she said, kissing the horse's nose.

Catherine strode determinedly into the trees and stopped, gazing about herself proudly. There was nothing really spectacular or scandalous to see, only endless trees, trees of varying colours and sizes, and a patch of wildflowers growing a little way away, their colours lavender and periwinkle. She decided that she would go and pick some and take them home to place in her room. The only reason that Catherine was disobeying Benjamin by entering the forest in the first place was because some strange whim had took over her and forced her to rebel against his warning, now she decided that she would certainly be breaking the rules if she took a little piece of the forest with her.

She knelt among the flowers and began to pick the prettiest, gathering them into a bundle. As the did so, she looked around her and smiled, the only sounds to be heard were the trees moving in the soft breeze and the birds singing their mourning chorus, somewhere nearby a piercing screech erupted from a bird of prey. When she was satisfied that she had a big enough bundle of flowers, she stood, dusted off her dress and began to make her way back to where Artemis was standing at the border where the two lands met.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here." a voice rang out from behind her. Catherine jumped and swung around to find a strange boy had appeared behind her, leaning against a tree. He wore a black piece of cloth tied across his nose so only his eyes and his mouth showed, thus hiding his identity. His outfit was oddly mismatched consisting of a bowler hat; a leather jacket with all manner of feathers, buckles and other trinkets attached to it; black trousers with numerous pockets and tall black boots.

"It seems a silly girl has wandered into our forest." he continued, smirking.

Catherine bristled, "I am no silly girl, boy. And I may walk wherever I choose."

"Oh, really? Well, the last time I checked, we De Noirs owned this forest." the boy said, taking a step towards her.

He took in her blank expression and suddenly began to laugh, "I do believe you have no idea who we are or how much danger you are in! You silly goose!" Catherine took a step backwards only to find her path blocked by another ragamuffin boy who had appeared just as soundlessly as the first. Soon they were joined by two more who had been hiding amongst the surrounding thicket. Catherine glanced quickly at each of the boys who had now surrounded her and began to panic, who on Earth were they and what did they want?

"You understand now don't you, silly girl?" the masked boy laughed, beginning to slowly circle her, "We're the people that your parents always warned you about! The people whose names the villagers will only utter in terrified whispers!"

"Please, I didn't mean any harm! I was just curious!" Catherine stammered in desperation.

"It's too late for that now! You're our prisoner!" the masked boy snapped.

Catherine mustered what little courage she had left so that her voice wouldn't tremble then drew herself up to her full height and glared down her nose at the boy, "My brother is Sir Benjamin Merryweather, if you lay so much as one finger on me then he will track you down and have his revenge." Even as the words were leaving her mouth, she knew how ridiculous they sounded. The group of boys began to laugh and their masked leader looked all the more delighted.

"Well, look at that!" he addressed his gang, "We've only gone and caught ourselves a Moon Princess! Lady Catherine Merryweather has finally returned to Moonacre. Welcome home, princess." His gang of idiots were shaking with laughter by now as he gave her a mocking bow.

Catherine was so overcome with rage that, without even thinking, she raised her hand and slapped the boy hard across the face. She had never struck anyone before in her life - not even her brother George when he used to torment her - now, as she slapped this awful boy, she experienced something new: the cracking sound that came from abrupt contact of skin upon skin, the sting and rising warmth upon her palm, the feeling of satisfaction that she felt afterwards, but also a feeling of utter dread as to what he might do now that she had struck him.

"Looks like the kitty has claws!" one of the boys laughed. The masked boy stared at Catherine for a moment, his eyes alive with fury, then he lunged forward suddenly, grabbing her chin and squeezing it tightly.

"Don't you ever do that again. Understand?" he hissed, putting his face close to hers. At such close quarters, Catherine was able to get a better look at the features which were not masked by the strip of black material: his eyes were a deep chocolate brown colour and had a somewhat smoky quality about them and his lips were curiously feminine and curving.

He released her chin with a sickly smile and stepped back, composing himself from his sudden outburst, then pushed his hat onto the back of his head and eyed her thoughtfully.

"Considering you've been such a bad girl I shall have to punish you." Hearing these words, Catherine felt sick.

"I think I'll have that pretty brooch you have there." he continued, gesturing to the diamond and emerald brooch pinned to the front of her dress.

"Hand it over and we will deliver you to my father without hurting you. Your choice, princess." he said, holding his hand out expectantly. Though Catherine was glad that his "punishment" wasn't half as bad as she had first feared it would be, she was still angered to have to hand over her mother's brooch to this ruffian. Reluctantly, she unpinned the brooch and placed it in his gloved palm.

"Good girl." he smirked, pocketing it, "You hold her." he pointed to the boy behind her who obligingly took hold of Catherine's arm and tugged her after his masked leader.

Catherine was dragged deeper and deeper into the forest by the boys who strolled at a leisurely pace. As they walked Catherine tried to tug her arm from the boy's grip, but he only held on tighter. After the he had grunted at her a couple of times to stop, the masked boy rounded on her.

"You'd better stop struggling, kitten. Or else I'm going to loose my temper again." he said, chucking her under the chin.

They came to a path where the ground dropped off into a deep ditch on their right. Catherine looked at this and sighed, she knew what she had to do. They had all moved into single file so as to walk along the narrow path, it was now that Catherine chose to act. Using her free arm she jabbed her elbow hard into the chest of the boy who held her, the boy let go of her immediately and doubled over gasping for air, Catherine swung around and kicked him hard in the shins. The other boys had turned around by now to see what the commotion was, Catherine merely gave them a contemptuous glance and flung herself into the ditch.

As she fell, Catherine saw the indignant face of the boy with the mask. She landed painfully with a dull  _thunk_ , her left arm was bent awkwardly under her and when she flexed her fingers tentatively, the pain shooting up her arm was excruciating but luckily it didn't seem broken. She heard the boys stumbling down the slope after her so she hauled herself to her feet and took off haring in the direction of where she had first entered the forest.

Catherine didn't know she had it in her to run so fast - probably because she had never before found herself in a situation where she must run for her life. She dodged between trees, leapt over fallen logs and wrenched violently at her dress and hair when they caught on bushes and yanked her backwards. All the while the boys chased her they yelled after her, calling her names and shouting threats.

"It's pointless running, princess! We know this forest like the backs of our hands! We were born here, remember!" the masked boy's silken voice rang out.

"Get back here you little witch!" another shouted.

Everything was silent where Artemis stood, that is until Catherine broke through a thicket of brambles with a scream. She threw herself over the horse's back - nearly falling headfirst over the other side - then took a moment to alter her position and sit up straight in the saddle and look triumphantly over her shoulder - surely the boys wouldn't dare chase her on Merryweather land? She was wrong. The boys broke through the brambles a second later with screams to match her own, their faces were flushed with the exertion of chasing her and they looked utterly furious. Catherine shrieked and dug her heels in Artemis' sides who immediately took off at a gallop. As she rode closer and closer to the safety of the Manor, Catherine kept glancing over her shoulder to see whether her attackers were still perusing her; they did, so far that is, until the gap between them and the horse grew too wide and they gave up, stopping doubled over with their hands on their knees, Catherine saw their bodies rising and falling as they struggled to get their breath back. Only their masked leader kept running but eventually he too gave up, with a scream of pure rage he threw his hat to the ground.

After putting Artemis safely back in her stall, Catherine returned to the Manor. She tiptoed from pillar to pillar in the Entrance Hall, hoping to God that she wouldn't bump into Benjamin. She was just about to scuttle upstairs when someone coughed pointedly behind her. Catherine froze then turned slowly. Benjamin was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace with a quizzical expression - she hadn't even noticed him.

"What are you doing?" he asked bemusedly.

"Going to my room." she said, trying to sound calm.

"If you don't mind my asking, how did you get in such a state?" Benjamin said in a voice which held no emotion but curiosity. Catherine spotted her reflection in a mirror across the room; the entire left side of her dress was smeared with mud from where she had slid part of the way down the slope into the ditch; the green material of her skirt was torn, revealing in some places her white petticoats underneath; her hair was in tangles and littered with all manner of leaves, twigs and thorns and a red scratch ran across her cheek from where she had pushed her way through the brambles.

"I tripped." she said simply then ran upstairs before Benjamin could say anything _._


	8. Chapter Seven

“I must say, my lady, the country air appears to be doing you a world of good.” Old Parson said as he poured some milk into her teacup and then his own. It was two days after the forest incident and Catherine had received a note from him, inviting her to join him for afternoon tea. And so she had tied her hair neatly back with a ribbon and put on a French lace blouse and a long beige skirt. To the lace at her throat she affixed a cameo brooch, given to her by her first and only sweetheart. Tobias Saxon had attended St. Adrian's School for Boys, an orphan, his only family to speak of was a rich distant uncle who paid his school fees and any other expenses. Toby had died of tuberculosis aged just fifteen. The cameo had belonged to his mother Toby had told her, his blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, and he would be honoured if Catherine would accept it. Now, whenever Catherine wore the brooch, she liked to think that she was keeping alive the memory not only of Toby, but of his mother also.

“Thank you, I do feel much happier.” Catherine said, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea and stirring, “I think…I think that being home is helping too.”

“Yes it will. Undoubtedly.”

“It is strange though, I could hardly remember my home when I lived at school. I was ten when I left yet I could hardly remember a thing. When I returned, the whole place felt so new to me, and yet…it felt right.”

“You were born there. It is your destiny to be at Moonacre, you’re a Merryweather through and through.” Old Parson took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes, savouring the taste. The front room of the Parsonage was a large and, apart from the little kitchen leading out of it, there were no other rooms on the ground floor of the house. Bookshelves lined the walls and a fiddle stood upon a chair in the corner, the windows had white and red check curtains and pots of pink geraniums lined the windowsills.Upon the table in front of them was a set of white and red crockery, honey and jams, currant scones with fresh cream and a sponge cake dusted with icing sugar.

“Sir?” she said, putting down her teacup, “I wonder if you might help me with something?”

“I shall certainly try, Lady Merryweather.”

“Benjamin insists that I spend every day out of the Manor so I can get plenty of fresh air. As grateful as I am for the beautiful horse he bought me, I confess, it is becoming a little boring merely riding around the estate every day. I was wondering if there is anything I can do in the village? Some help I could be?”

“As it would happen, my lady, I was just about to ask you the very same thing. I understand in London wealthy young ladies often involve themselves in charitable causes in the community? Would you be willing to undertake such a role in Silverydew?”

“Of course! I’d love to get to know all the inhabitants of the village!”

“Well, let me think.” Old Parson wandered over to the window and gazed out, teacup still in hand, “Ah! I have an idea! Mrs. Constance Darvill is an elderly widow who lives in the village. She is cared for by her younger sister and rarely leaves the house due to poor health. Perhaps if you were to visit her, it may do her some good?”

“I’d be happy to. When should I visit?”

“The cottage is just along the lane. Shall I introduce you after tea?”

“Yes please.”

The cottage which belonged to the sisters was a quaint little place, though it was in slight disrepair due to the fact that its owners were two very elderly ladies who could hardly be expected to be able to manage its upkeep all the time; the whitewash was peeling on the outer walls, the front garden was overgrown in places with wild flowers and tall grasses, the upstairs windows were somewhat grimy and some of the terracotta tiles on the roof were missing.

The lady who answered the door was possibly the oldest person Catherine had ever laid eyes upon. When she walked, she shuffled with her back bowed and her head down so that her chin rested upon her chest. Her hair was pure white and set in a rather old fashioned style with curls hanging from her temples, the wrinkles on her face were like tree roots spreading all over the skin and she had not a tooth in her head.

“Parson, how very lovely to see you!” the old woman exclaimed by way of greeting.

“And a pleasure to see you as always, Petunia.” Old Parson replied, “May I have the pleasure of introducing the Lady Catherine Merryweather? Catherine, this is Miss Petunia Darlyshire, Mrs. Darvill’s younger sister.”

Catherine had first assumed this ancient lady to be Mrs. Darvill herself – why, she had to be at least eighty! She could scarce believe that the hunched, wrinkled figure before her was the younger of the two. What on Earth would the elder look like?

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance, my lady. A true honour.” Miss Darlyshire lowered herself as best she could into a curtsy. Catherine was surprised she could not hear her bones audibly creaking, “If I may say so, my lady, I was awfully sorry to hear of the death of your mother. She was a true lady. Very beautiful.”

“I am honoured to meet you too, Miss Darlyshire. Thank you for your kind words.” Catherine said, reaching out and touching the lady’s pale bony hands.

“I thought perhaps Lady Merryweather could visit your sister once a week. It might do her some good to have some new company, I understand that her health has taken a turn for the worse recently? And of course it will give you yourself an opportunity to rest awhile from caring for your sister all day.”

“Oh how lovely!” Miss Darlyshire squeaked in girlish enthusiasm, “She’ll be delighted, she does love to meet new people and have company. Will you read to her? Connie enjoys being read to and I think she will appreciate having a young lady do so.”

Catherine couldn’t help but smile at the sisterly nickname by which the old woman had referred to her elder sibling, “I’d love to. I enjoy reading very much myself.” 

“Well then, you simply must go straight upstairs and introduce yourself to her now! She wouldn’t be able to cope with the excitement if I told her about the arrangement and she never got a chance to meet you until next time you visit!” the old woman ushered Catherine past her and into the house, pointing up a staircase behind her which led up to a gloomy landing, “First door you come to, my lady. Will you come in for tea Parson?”

Catherine knocked upon the first door, waited a moment and then entered. The room was a bedroom cum living room with a huge four-poster bed at one end and a fireplace at the other. Every available surface was cluttered with bric-a-brac; vases of dried flowers, their crisped petals dripping to the floor; two ceramic spaniel dogs sitting either side of the mantelpiece; silver candlesticks and china plates lined on a sideboard; paintings and daguerreotypes in heavy silver frames; lace doilies and half-finished embroideries; bottles of rosewater and lavender eau de toilette gone stagnant; bundles of letters tied with ribbons, the paper gone yellow with age; dusty leather-bound books packed into a bookcase. The whole place gave off an air of opulence and yet at the same time, decay; like a peach with soft rosy skin but, upon taking a bite, one finds the insides rotting and writhing with maggots. A heavy curtain was drawn across the window, this, coupled with the fact that all of the furniture in the room was made of dark mahogany wood, made Catherine feel as though the darkness itself was looming up to greet her as she entered.

“Who the Devil are you?” a voice squawked, startling her. An old woman was sitting in an armchair beside the crackling fire. She reminded Catherine of a fat toad with her perfectly spherical face and leathery skin. Her eyes, bulging and watery, shone with a kind of spiteful cruelty, which is often seen in the eyes of cantankerous old women, her mouth was small and pinched, as if she were constantly displeased - and to tell the truth, Mrs. Darvill was. Her iron grey hair was wrapped in a hairnet with ringlets framing her face like her sister, her dress was like a black waterfall of silk and lace spilling around her, upon her hands, which rested heavily on the ivory handle of a cane, she wore black lace gloves.   

“Catherine Merryweather, Mrs. Darvill. Old Parson thought that I should visit you.”

“Merryweather, eh? You’ll be the daughter of Sir Tristram Merryweather?” Mrs. Darvill narrowed her eyes and looked Catherine up and down critically.

“Yes.”

“My sister Petunia told me that talk in the village is that you’re one of the loveliest girls anyone has ever seen. But then, everyone in the village is an empty-headed fool – including my sister. I, however, am not an idiot. I’ve seen lovelier. My Gwen for one.” the old woman sniffed.

“Gwen?”

“My daughter. She is away at the moment, spending the season in London. But she will be back soon. Your mother died very recently did she not?”

“Yes. Yes she did.”

“They all said she was a great beauty. But I disagree. No one can compare to my Gwen.”

Catherine was shocked by the old woman’s bluntness, “I...um...I think...”

“What? Stop mumbling, girl!”

“I think I ought to be on my way now. Goodbye.” Mrs. Darvill didn’t even reply, she merely gave Catherine a withering look and turned to stare into the flames dancing in the grate. Catherine left the room quickly and pounded downstairs. Old Parson was sitting in the parlour drinking tea with Miss Darlyshire. Compared to stuffy, gloomy upstairs room, the airy parlour with sunlight streaming in its windows seemed like a whole other country, rather than a part of the same house.

“I’d like to leave now.” Catherine mumbled. Old Parson immediately put down the teacup he was holding and went to collect his hat and coat. After saying goodbye to Miss Darlyshire, they began walking back to the Parsonage.

“I take it by our swift exit that Mrs. Darvill was her usual feisty self?” Old Parson said, smiling wryly.

“Couldn’t you have warned me how beastly she is? The way her sister speaks of her I was expecting to meet a Saint!” Catherine cried.

Old Parson threw back his head and laughed, “I don’t think anything I said could have prepared you for an encounter with Mrs. Darvill! And Miss Darlyshire is too kind-hearted to say a bad word against her sister. Will you return?” They had stopped at the gate to the Parsonage.

“I don’t think she’d like to have me around.”

“Actually, I think you may be rather wrong there, Catherine. For all Mrs. Darvill is a little prickly, I think she is rather lonely.”

“Well...I suppose I could visit again. You never know! Perhaps with some perseverance she might warm to me!”

“You never know.” Old Parson laughed.

“Goodbye, sir. Thank you for inviting me to tea.”

“Goodbye, my lady. Please feel free to visit any time.”

Catherine hummed happily to herself as she walked back to the Manor. Despite the rather unpleasant experience of meeting Mrs. Darvill, she was in high spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon and the lane she was walking down was particularly lovely, with the fringes of the forest to her left and a spectacular view of a patchwork fields to her right: golden fields of wheat, fields of grass dotted with ponies or sheep, fields filled with wildflowers where the village children would play. She stopped for a moment and admired the view, she basked in the afternoon sunlight and watched the crisp white clouds roll across the blue sky. A sudden loud crack startled her. Catherine swung around and stared into the forest behind her but she could see no one amongst the trees. She became aware for the first time how oddly quiet it had suddenly become, only a moment ago she had heard birds singing, a woodpecker pounding away at a tree somewhere, the wind dancing through the trees. And now there was nothing, it was almost as if the entire forest and all its inhabitants had taken a collective intake of breath. Disconcerted, she began walking again at a much quicker pace, occasionally glancing over her shoulder but the road behind remained deserted.

Quite suddenly, from the forest to her left, a black shape barged out of the undergrowth and straight into her, knocking her to the ground. She didn’t even get a chance to see the figure’s face for almost immediately a black cloth bag was forced over her head. Catherine kicked and screamed but, upon hearing voices nearby, fell silent, a glimmer of hope flickering. Had someone heard her screams and ran to her aid?

“Watch her arms and legs, she’s a feisty one and I wouldn’t be surprised if she could aim well whilst blind.” someone muttered. Catherine’s heart sank, no one had come to rescue her, it was just more kidnappers. A pair of arms slithered around her waist while a pair of hands clamped down on her ankles and so she was hoisted up into the air and carried away. She felt leaves and branches hitting her as whoever was carrying her pushed through them and into the forest. They walked for some time and all the while she squirmed and thrashed but to no avail for her attackers possessed a grip of iron. She heard a horse bray nearby and they finally stopped.

“Look what we found!” one of the people carrying her called. Catherine was sure she recognised his voice as possibly belonging to the smirking blonde boy she had encountered among the group of boys in the forest two days ago.

“Good.” a gruff voice replied. She did not recognise this voice as it appeared to belong to a grown man. Clearly with little concern for her wellbeing, the boys carelessly flung her over the back of the horse in front of the rider.

The horse took off galloping immediately, weaving recklessly through the trees, the force would have been enough to throw her from its back had the rider not been firmly holding the material of the back of her blouse. They rode for a long time and gradually she began to feel sick from being jostled around so much – not to mention the saddle was digging painfully into her stomach.

The horse’s hooves began to clatter on cobblestones and the sound of chattering voices not long after told Catherine that the long and uncomfortable journey was finally over. 

“Got her.” the rider said to someone nearby who began cackling in response. The man dismounted from the horse and yanked her down after him. Her legs felt weak after the violent ride and folded under her, thus causing her to fall on her backside and earning her a chorus of hysterical laughter from the unseen people around her. After a moment she was hauled to her feet and dragged alongside someone. She sensed by the changing sounds that she had been walked indoors and, as she stumbled blindly alongside whoever was leading her, tripping over irregular flagstones and reeling as she was yanked abruptly around corners, she reflected that the likelihood of her escaping has dropped to nigh on impossible.

When the mask was tugged from her face, Catherine found herself in a stone dungeon, lit only by flaming torches on the walls and a couple of paltry squares of pale light filtering in from the windows near the ceiling which faced on to the courtyard above at ground level. She was pushed forcefully into one of the cells and the gate was locked behind her.

“What do you think you are doing locking me in this dungeon? It’s filthy! How dare you kidnap me! My brother shall hear of this and then you’ll be sorry!” she yelled in indignation but the man who had dragged her there merely smirked – revealing a set of rotten teeth – and walked away.

“Don’t you walk away from me! I demand to speak to your Master! What right has he to kidnap me?” she shouted after him.

“Ah! I thought I recognised that voice!”

The masked boy had appeared, lounging in the doorway. Judging by his gleeful grin, he was _very_ pleased to observe her current predicament.   


	9. Chapter Eight

Robin was sitting high up in one of the gaps between the castle battlements, reading a book. That morning Richard and David had disappeared off somewhere leaving him with only Henry for company and Robin had soon tired of him. Henry wasn’t particularly bright, you see. When they were younger all Robin had to do was suggest a game of hide-and-seek, Henry would run to hide somewhere and Robin wouldn’t even bother searching for him, thus being finally be rid of him. On one especially memorable occasion, Robin had completely forgotten about the game and only remembered when Henry came trudging into the hall at suppertime having spent all day hiding up a tree in the forest. Robin had felt a little guilty then and quickly declared the other boy the winner and congratulated him on his superior hiding skills. Now though, childish games of hide-and-seek were out of the question so Robin had sent Henry to the kitchens to fetch some food for them, then he had slipped quietly away to hide somewhere himself.

“Robin! Robin!” Henry appeared, running about the courtyard below and calling his name. He stopped to talk to one of the guards who turned and pointed straight up to where Robin was sitting. Robin tutted to himself in annoyance as Henry sprinted towards him, taking the stone steps two at a time.

“Robin! You’ll never believe it!” Henry panted when he was finally standing before him.

“Oh do tell me, Henry. I’m simply dying to know.” Robin said sarcastically, turning his attention back to Doctor Faustus.

“Richard and David. They went out with Dulac and captured the Merryweather girl!”

“What!”

“Dulac is approaching the castle with her now.” The words had barely left Henry’s mouth when Dulac’s horse trotted through the gates below. Robin snapped the book shut and started down the steps, stopping halfway to stare at the scene unfolding before him.

The Merryweather girl was lying on her stomach across Dulac’s horse with a black sack over her head. Dulac dismounted like a conquering hero as the guards flocked around to offer their congratulations and call some insults at the motionless young woman. Robin couldn’t help but chuckle when, upon being pulled down from the horse, the girl merely flopped straight the floor, landing on her backside. After sparing a moment to laugh at her, one of the guards pulled her to her feet by the front of her blouse and, gripping her arm tightly, began to drag her inside the castle. Robin guessed that he would be taking her to the dungeons. Richard and David strolled through the gates a moment later and he ran the rest of the way down the steps to meet them.

“What do you think you’re doing? Going off and doing your own thing like that?” he hissed at them furiously.

“Jealous are we, Robin?” Richard smirked.

“I assume Dulac did all the work?”

“Not bloody likely! We were the ones who grabbed her and carried her to where Dulac was waiting on the horse. And let me tell you, she may look graceful, but that girl is not easy to carry!”

“You never were very strong.” David muttered. Richard shot him a dark look.

“The point is you should never have done anything of the sort without my knowledge or permission.” Robin spoke through gritted teeth.

Richard glowered, “You aren’t Coeur yet, Robin.” he said coldly, brushing past him and stalking away.

“So what now?” Henry asked, breaking a rather awkward silence.

“Dulac said that Coeur de Noir will see her tomorrow morning. Apparently, a taste of De Noir hospitality will surely loosen her tongue.” David responded before walking away after Richard.

* * *

“I knew it! I knew this whole thing would be your idea!” Catherine cried accusingly.

“Actually it wasn’t. I had no idea Richard and David were planning on capturing you.” The masked boy replied, wandering over to lean on the metal gate which, for some strange reason, had a heart-shaped window.

“You’re lying.”

The boy glared at her, “I saw you fall off the horse and flat on your arse, not very lady-like is it?” he said with the intention of embarrassing her.

“And it isn’t very gentlemanly to keep a lady locked in a cell.” Catherine retorted tartly.

“When I see one locked up, I’ll be sure to free her.”

“So how long do you intend on keeping me locked in a dungeon, may I ask?”

“It’s not up to me. I think my father intends to leave you here overnight.”

“Your father?”

“Coeur de Noir. He is leader of the De Noir clan and I am his heir, Robin de Noir.” the boy explained with a mocking bow.

“If I were heir to a castle and a clan then I would try to act with more maturity.” Catherine muttered to herself.

“I heard that!”

“I won’t stand for being locked in a cell! I am not some wild beast in a circus!”

“Really? That’s funny because you remind me awfully of a tiger: pretty to look at but vicious if one were to get too close.”

“You can tell Coeur de Noir that I do not appreciate his hospitality and if he had any honour then he would not keep a lady in a dungeon!” Catherine raised her voice as she said this so that the echoes travelled down the draughty stone corridors of the fortress. She hoped that if Coeur de Noir heard this then he would feel obliged to see her immediately and perhaps decide not to keep her in the dungeon.

“For God’s sake be quiet, kitten!” the masked boy groaned.

“No! I demand that you release me, you...you half-wit!”

Robin de Noir fixed her with a frosty glare, “You know what, kitty? I think I like the look of you in there.” he gestured to the heart-shaped window which framed her face, “I think you should stay there.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out the dungeon.

In the corner of the cell there was a low wooden bed, Catherine sat down upon it and suppressed the urge to cry. Crying never helped anyone, she told herself. The walls of her prison were of rough stone and damp, occasionally the sound of a droplet of water dripping to the floor would break the eerie silence. She had never felt so afraid before in her entire life. It was getting dark outside, surely Benjamin would have realised by now that something was amiss? Would he ever be able to find her? Would she make it out of this horrible place alive?

The thought of never seeing Benjamin again, or anyone at all for that matter, made her succumb to her tears. Catherine wrapped her arms around her body and rocked back and forward as she sobbed. Not wishing any of her captors to see her crying, she lay on her side upon the wooden bed with her back to the gate, hugging her knees into her chest.

A sharp prod on her back woke her. It was pitch black in the cell and she wasn’t sure how long she how long she had slept for, she wasn’t even certain if it had been someone waking her or if she had just jolted herself awake. But when she felt another prod on her back and realised that there was someone there with her in the darkness, she was so startled that she immediately scrambled to her feet, ready to lash out. But whoever it was merely grabbed her wrist and swung her around sharply, causing her to stagger back against them.

“Stop it!” someone - a male – hissed, bending Catherine’s arm painfully behind her back.

“Let go of me!” she cried, struggling to pull herself from his grasp.

“The more you struggle, the more painful it gets.” he said. Catherine was rather put out to have to follow his advice when it turned out to be true.

“Good girl.” he purred in her ear, making her shudder.

“I'm here to help you, but if you give me any trouble then I'll change my mind.” he whispered. Long fingers coiled around her throat, almost caressing.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” he asked patronisingly. Catherine swallowed with difficulty and reluctantly nodded. Immediately, the hands were gone. Wincing, she straightened her arm and turned around. She could see nothing of the man except for a darker shape in the blackness in front of her. Without a word, he took her hand and tugged her along with him out the cell door which stood ajar.

It seemed that at night-time the entire De Noir castle descended into almost complete darkness, except for some of the main rooms which were lit with torches and lanterns. As they walked, Catherine tried to get a glimpse of her rescuer when they stepped into the patches of moonlight cast onto the floor from the high windows, but he hurried her straight through them and down the halls. Occasionally, they would hear someone approaching and he would push her into an alcove where they would wait silently until whoever it was had passed, his arm extended protectively across her body.

He guided her down a narrow spiral staircase until they emerged outside through a small door which had been built into the very rock at the foundation of the castle. She found herself stopping and looking up at the castle towering above them, silhouetted against the night sky until a sharp tug on her hand pulled her away. It was almost pitch black outside and a cold wind swept through the trees chilling Catherine, who hadn’t bothered to put a coat on that morning. They walked in silence at a brisk pace and, rather oddly, she found herself admiring how soft and warm her rescuer's hand was as it clasped hers tightly. 

Suddenly a cry came up from behind them.

“The sentries must have spotted us!” he gasped, breaking into a run. As they ran through the forest, ducking under branches and leaping like racehorses over obstacles, Catherine stumbled on a place where the ground fell away suddenly and lost her grip on his hand. As their hands came apart, she felt something metal slip into hers, but before she could look to see what it was, his hand had laced around her wrist and he was dragging her away again. She heard shouting and the sound of horses pounding along the ground behind them.

“Come on! Come on!” he urged her, pulling her so hard that she was sure that any moment now he would dislocate her arm.

“We’re here.” he said, the relief plain in his voice. The pair stepped out of the forest and Catherine found that they were standing on the Merryweather estate and that she could see the Manor not far away, he had led her to the place where she had entered the forest for the first time.

She turned to face her rescuer, now that they were clear of the trees the clear moonlight enabled her see his face finally. To her utter horror and amazement she found herself looking into the familiar, albeit masked face of Robin de Noir. His skin shone unearthly white in the moonlight and his eyes appeared especially dark; he pushed his hat onto the back of his head and scowled at her.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Don't just stand there gawping you stupid girl! Go before they catch you!” he ordered.

“Why are you helping me? Is this a trick?”

“Just go!” he hissed, pushing her in the direction of the Manor.

“I...thank you.” she blurted. Robin’s expressing changed, he looked taken aback and a little uncertain. Catherine turned and began to run across the vast sprawl of grass towards the Manor.

The front door was unlocked and Benjamin was pacing in the Entrance Hall, waiting for her. As soon as she stepped through the door Benjamin crossed the room in three strides and pulled her to him, crushing her into his chest. His face was pale and his hair dishevelled as if he had been running his fingers through it in worry.

“Catherine, where the Devil have you been! It’s ten o’clock at night for God’s sake!” he scolded, “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Parson!” As Catherine stepped back and straightened herself out from the bone-crushing embrace, she realised that Old Parson was also there, sitting in Benjamin’s usual chair.

“Your brother sent Digweed to fetch me when you didn’t return.” the old man said, answering her unspoken question.

“What on Earth happened?” Benjamin demanded.

Catherine glanced at Old Parson and knew she couldn't lie again. She took a deep breath then rushed it out, “I was kidnapped by the De Noirs.”

“What?” Benjamin said tightly. His skin was ghastly white, but then Catherine watched as a furious red flush rose up from his neck and covered his entire face. He swung around and began pacing the room rapidly, his black coat billowing behind him.

Benjamin was furious. He was all for saddling up his horse that moment and going to confront the De Noirs and it took Catherine and Old Parson almost half an hour to calm him down and dissuade him from the idea. Finally, when he was calm, Old Parson announced that it was late and time for him to leave so Catherine volunteered to walk him down to the gate.

Catherine bade the Parson goodnight and closed the gate after him. As she watched him walk down the road, Catherine looked across to where she had emerged from the forest and froze as she realised that Robin de Noir was still standing there, watching her, after a moment he retreated backwards and melted in amongst the trees.


	10. Chapter Nine

It was gone.

After seeing Old Parson to the gate, Catherine had gone to her room and sat in the armchair beside the fire. She reached into one of the pockets of her skirt and pulled out whatever had slipped into her hand when she and the De Noir boy were running through the forest. It was a ring, gold with a black onyx stone which was carved with a coat of arms. Catherine squinted to make out the crest: a silver shield with the image of a black lion. She thought about this for a minute, this obviously belonged to Robin de Noir and the right thing to do would be to give it back to him, after all, he had helped her to escape - that being said, he had been perfectly beastly to her and still had her mother's brooch _and_ her scarf. No, Catherine thought, she would give it back to him when she could and prove she was a better person than him.

She decided to hide it in her jewellery box to make sure Benjamin wouldn’t come across it. As she placed it in the box, Catherine caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dressing table mirror and saw that the cameo brooch given to her by Tobias Saxon was missing from its place at her throat. Catherine gave a strangled cry of utter despair, her hand flying up to touch the lace at her throat. She promised herself that, no matter what, she would go back to the forest and find it. She didn't even care if she got caught again, just as long as she found it.

* * *

_"My father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where -”_

“Stop! I can’t bear the sound of your voice!” Mrs. Darvill interrupted.

“But we’ve only gotten to page eight!”

“I don’t care. I’ve no wish to hear your voice any longer. You don’t read as well as Gwen does.”

Catherine was seated on a chair in Mrs. Darvill’s dingy bedroom while the old lady herself sat enthroned in her armchair beside the fire. She was reading from a copy of Robinson Crusoe while Mrs. Darvill interrupted at every possible opportunity.

“Does Gwen often read to you?”

“Every time she is here.” the old woman replied haughtily, “Her voice is pleasing to the ear. _Your_ voice has a somewhat unpleasant quality about it.”

Catherine bit back the urge to say something harsh in return and instead said sweetly, “When will Gwen be here next?”

“She’ll finish the season in London and then return home. I expect her arrival any day now and then I’ll have no need of you for _she_ will read to me and do a much better job if it!”

“I’m sure she will.”

“You may continue.” Mrs. Darvill said, much to Catherine’s surprise.

_“…where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very warmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons, more than a mere -”_

“Lift that painting down from the mantelpiece.” Mrs. Darvill suddenly commanded. Catherine marked her place in the book with a scrap of ribbon then laid it aside and went to fetch said painting.

“Look at it!”

The painting was only about the size of the book she had been reading, it depicted a rather beautiful young woman in her late teens. Her hair was golden blond and tied in a thick plait around her head with little flowers placed amongst it; her face was heart-shaped with fine cheekbones, a button nose, pert little lips like a rosebud and dimples.

“Is this Gwen? She’s very lovely.” Catherine held the painting out to Mrs. Darvill who snatched it from her hands.

“Yes she is. Hair like liquid gold, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots.” the old woman murmured distractedly, stroking the edge of the painting with one gnarled, arthritic claw of a hand, “Gentlemen from all over the British Isles are vying for her hand. The French ambassador even wants her for a bride for his eldest son…Open the trunk at the bottom of the bed.”

Catherine did so, and couldn’t help but gasp at what she found inside. The trunk was packed with some of the finest clothes she had ever seen; two velvet dresses, ruby red and emerald green; a plumb coloured walking dress with accompanying jacket, gloves and parasol; a travelling dress of black moiré silk; a grey mink coat with matching hat and hand muff; a luxuriously soft white stole made of Arctic Fox fur; Japanese silk robes for the evening; pale hand-printed dresses to be worn in the garden on a summer’s day; dresses to wear to horse races, garden parties, on yachts, at picnics, to breakfast, to dinner and to supper. Silk and muslin petticoats and bloomers, trimmed with lace and ribbons; whalebone corsets embroidered with miniscule flowers, butterflies and dragonflies.

“Oh, Mrs. Darvill! They’re wonderful! I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before!” Catherine marvelled.

“Her wedding trousseau. I sewed the intimates myself. I did a fine job, did I not?” Mrs. Darvill replied in a faraway voice, still fondling the painting.

“Yes you did.” Catherine agreed, running a finger over a dragonfly sewn upon one of the corsets, its body was of shining gold thread and its wings of green and blue, giving the whole thing a lustre akin to a peacock’s feather.

“In the wardrobe are her ball gowns. Imported from Paris.”

Catherine flung open the wardrobe doors and found six exquisite dresses which greeted her with a rustle of satin and chiffon; a dress of black velvet embroidered with gold brocade and with black lace trimming the sleeves and neckline; a dress of deep purple with silken violets, which looked uncannily real, sewn upon the dress as though they had been scattered across the wearer’s collarbones; one made of an unusual dusky pink material which turned lilac in some places when it caught the light; teal satin embroidered with dragonflies like the corset Catherine had handled earlier, which had obviously sewn to match the splendid dress; an unusual mustard yellow dress with a scarlet sash around the waist and corsage upon the shoulder; but the finest of them all was undoubtedly a dress made of layer upon layer of white chiffon, it had dramatic puffed sleeves and was sewn all over with little hanging pearls which quivered at the slightest movement.  

“When is Gwen getting married?” Catherine asked, turning to face the old woman.

“In the summer. I still have yet to finish embroidering her handkerchiefs. It takes so long because of my arthritis. But I’m confident that I’ll have them finished in time.” Mrs. Darvill looked up from the painting for the first time in almost five minutes and stared at Catherine as if she were just seeing her for the first time, “What are you doing? Who told you to stop reading? Read! Read this instant!” she reprimanded, almost on the verge of shrieking.      

Catherine sat back down again and opened the book, _“…more than a mere wandering inclination, I had for leaving my father’s house and my native country; where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of -”_

“Oh, it’s no good! It’s just no good! You’ll never compare to my Gwen.” Mrs. Darvill grumbled, “Leave now. I want you to leave.”

Catherine, who was utterly bewildered by the old woman’s behaviour, to say the least, put the book down and made for the door, “Good bye, Mrs. Darvill.” she stammered on her way out.

“And you needn’t bother coming back!” Mrs. Darvill called after her, “By then my Gwen shall be here and I shall have no need of you!”

Catherine stood in the lane outside the cottage for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She was more than a little shaken by the experience of her first afternoon spent with Mrs. Darvill.

“M’lady! Lady Merryweather!” a voice called. Catherine turned to see Josiah Flitch scampering down the lane towards her. He skidded to a halt in front of her, breathless and grinning.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, mum. A right pleasure!” he laughed, grabbing her hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

“How do you do, Josiah? Is Mister Hadaway still in London?”

“Aye that ’e is and ’e probably won’t be back for a while yet. An ’igh profile client - a duke – popped ’is clogs and Mister ’adaway ’ad to stay behind for the readin’ of the will and all. But it turns out that several illegitimate children ’ave come forward, all demandin’ a share of the wealth. So the situation ’as complicated somewhat.” Flitch babbled, still shaking her hand.

“Well I do hope it all sorts out quickly for him. No doubt he is extremely busy.”

“Aye but I’m lookin’ after things at this end so ’e doesn’t ’ave to worry ’bout things in Silverydew.” Josiah boasted smugly.

“And I’m sure you’re doing a splendid job, Josiah. You seem like a very capable young man.” Catherine replied. The skinny clerk puffed out his chest proudly.   

“So what’s your business in the village today?”

“Old Parson arranged for me to visit Mrs. Darvill and read to her once a week.”

Josiah threw back his head and positively squealed with laughter, “Ha! I don’t envy you, mum!”

“Ah. I take it you’ve met Mrs. Darvill before?”

“Just the once, mum. Mister ’adaway took me with ’im when ’e visited to set some affairs in order. Right royal cow she was!”

“Oh.”

“’scuse my French, mum. Well, I reckon you’ll be needin’ a drink after spendin’ the afternoon with that old crone! Come on, Cathy,” Flitch said, flinging an arm around her shoulders, “We’ll go to The Lion and I’ll buy you a lemonade!”

While Phillip Hadaway would have very probably been horrified by the familiar manner in which Flitch was treating her, Catherine herself didn’t mind in the slightest and laughed as the clerk steered her down the lane and to the local public house.

The pub which Josiah had referred to as ‘The Lion’ was actually named ‘The Lion and Unicorn’ as the sign proclaimed, along with a very good painting of a black lion and a silver unicorn fighting viciously over a jewelled crown, just as the popular rhyme decreed. The proprietor was a man named Roger Norton who greeted them heartily from where he stood behind the bar. Norton was a beefy man with curly auburn hair - which had begun to thin a little on top - and mutton-chop sideburns.

Catherine sat at a table in the corner while Josiah went to the bar to order their drinks. He walked back to the table carrying the drinks, all the while staring at the glasses with a laughable expression of concentration as he focused hard on trying not to spill the contents. Catherine had lemonade while Flitch sipped daintily at a glass of sherry, his little finger sticking out – no doubt he was trying to convey an aura of good-breeding to the other patrons of the pub in order to prove himself worthy of the company of his aristocratic companion.

Roger Norton came out from behind the bar to talk to them, “Lady Merryweather! What an honour it is to have you set foot in here!” he boomed, bowing rather elegantly for a man his size.

“My mother is probably spinning in her grave if she can see me! She always said that no lady of good breeding would ever be vulgar enough to enter a public house!” Catherine laughed, “But then, she always did have silly, old-fashioned principles. I am very happy to be here.”

“As I recall she was none too happy that your father visited as often as he did.” Norton said with a smile, “He was a good man was Lord Merryweather. Treated every man as his equal. Well, this deserves a toast,” the publican went behind the bar and returned with a brimming glass of ale, “To Lady Merryweather, for ignoring convention and entering a public house! It is a treat to see a lovely young woman in here. Hopefully one day custom will change and more young ladies will be free to enter!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Josiah giggled, knocking back the rest of his sherry. He was already looking rather glassy eyed and a little drunk.

“Norton, my good fellow,” he slurred, putting on a ridiculous posh accent, “Would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass of sherry?”

“It’s a little early in the day, don’t you think, Josiah?” Roger Norton said gently, “And you aren’t very good at holding your liquor.”

“Nonsense!” Flitch cried, spraying spit through the air as he spoke, “We’re celebrating! Lady Catherine was fortunate enough to escape the evil clutches of Mrs. Darvill!”

“You’ve been visiting Mrs. Darvill, eh? Did you find her as frightful as everyone else does?” Norton chortled, his laugh was loud and deep.

“I am afraid so, Mister Norton.” Catherine smiled, “Though I think perhaps her disposition will sweeten when her daughter arrives.” Roger Norton’s laugh stopped abruptly and his smile faded, a look of incomprehension was adopted instead. Even the inebriated Josiah Flitch turned his gaze upon her and looked confused. 

“You know, her daughter Gwen.” Catherine explained.

“Lady Merryweather, Mrs. Darvill doesn’t have a daughter. Gwen died more than fifty years ago.” Mister Norton explained quietly.

“But she told me that she was spending the season in London and that she would be getting married soon! She showed me her wedding trousseau!”

“Mrs. Darvill only remembers her daughter as how she was. If Gwen were alive today then she’d be an old woman herself.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“I suppose she’s told you about all the suitors Gwen had?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s true; Gwen Darvill was indeed a very beautiful young woman with high prospects and she was expected to make a good marriage. Mrs. Darvill was very strict and worked tirelessly to make Gwen into the perfect potential bride. All the British aristocracy with unmarried sons were interested and even some foreign dignitaries began to get involved. What no one counted on was Gwen herself. Turns out she had fallen in love with a stable boy who worked on one of the farms just outside the village.”

“Oh dear.” Catherine winced.

Roger Norton nodded sagely, “Some way or another Mrs. Darvill found out and, to put it mildly, she was furious. To make matters worse, it turned out that Gwen and the boy were planning to elope. So Mrs. Darvill called the local magistrate and accused the boy of breaking into their house and thieving. The lad was locked up and eventually deported to Australia. Gwen was heartbroken and, not long after, she committed suicide. Threw herself off the cliffs at Merryweather Bay. Mrs. Darvill suffered from some illness for a while after that – probably the shock had gotten to her – and since then she seems to have forgotten the whole thing, she’s convinced that Gwen is just away in London and will return soon and get married. She even carried on amassing her daughter’s wedding trousseau – thousands I heard she spent on it and then spent years painstakingly sewing other things, making it all perfect.”

“Oh God, what an awful story!” Catherine said, close to tears.

“It’s a tragedy to be sure. Then, almost fifteen years after Gwen killed herself, a rich gentleman arrived in this very pub asking of her whereabouts and if she ever did get married. It turned out to be the stable boy, all grown up. He’d done his time in Australia for the crime he didn’t commit and then made himself a fortune out there with a gold mine. He’d come back in the hopes that he could finally marry her like he’d planned to and practically broke his heart when I told him what had happened to her. He sat at the bar and sobbed his heart out.”

“Haha! I found it, old sport! I found it!” a voice suddenly crowed triumphantly. Catherine and Mister Norton looked up to find Josiah Flitch standing over them, waving a bottle of sherry in their faces. While the publican had been telling his story, Flitch had left the table without them seeing, snuck behind the bar and hunted for the sherry himself, breaking three glasses and a bottle of whiskey in the process.

“Yes, you thought you could hide it from me, didn’t you? Well, I found it and I shan’t share any with you, old sport!” Flitch whooped before biting the cork out of the bottle and taking a large gulp.          


	11. Chapter Ten

_He was chasing her through the forest. The Merryweather girl. He was rather a fast runner and knew the forest like the back of his hand, but still he couldn’t quite seem to catch her. Something seemed to be hindering his chase, dragging him back as if he were running with an iron ball and chain locked around both ankles. Sometimes he would suddenly find himself in a place he didn’t recognise, having to negotiate unfamiliar terrain, tripping over fallen trees he couldn’t see and twisting his ankles in holes in the ground as he went. And all the while she ran just slightly ahead of him, black curls and silken skirts flying out behind her, laughing delightedly at his poor attempt to give chase and turning to smile over her shoulder every so often at him. It was these occasional smiles which spurred him on to keep going, the promise of something new and exciting and delicious if he could only but catch her. He reached out his hands, grabbing for her, but just when it seemed that he finally had her in his possession, the chase ended, the game won, she would slip away, melting through his fingers like water or smoke. He tripped over something - he had no idea what - and came crashing to the ground. He lay on his front for a moment, his face buried in the soft grass then turned over onto his back with a groan. She was suddenly kneeling beside him, one of those lovely, enticing smiles still playing over her lips. She leant over him as if to kiss him, and he felt his entire body tense, his breathing and heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Closer. Closer. He wanted to push himself upwards to close the gap, but found himself unable to do so. Just like before when he was running, some unseen force was holding his body back, pressing him hard to the ground. Closer. Just a little closer. Strands of her hair were tickling his face and he could feel her breath on his skin. Then, she veered away sharply and her lips were brushing his ear as she whispered, “You don’t want to **catch** me, Robin de Noir. You want to _ **win** _me.”_

Robin opened his eyes. Dawn was just breaking, painting the walls of his high tower room pale blue. He rubbed his eyes hard, grinding his knuckles into the sockets then began to vigorously scratch his head, mussing up his already dishevelled curls. Remembering the dream he had just woken from, he slipped his hand under his pillow and felt around until his fingers grazed the soft material of the Merryweather girl’s scarf. Pulling it out, he coiled it around his hands as he thought; the dream troubled him, it wasn’t right that he should be thinking such things of a Merryweather - despite the fact that he had little to no control over what he dreamt at night. He knew exactly what his grandmother would say, she was always spouting some old wives’ tale or another. Robin had heard her say on numerous occasions that dreams were a manifestation of what the sleeper desired most, something hidden in their subconscious finally revealing itself. Of course, he would never tell her the details of his dream for she would surely call him a filthy traitor if he did. She hated the Merryweathers more than anyone in the castle after what they did to her brother, Greyson de Noir.

But still, he couldn’t help but feel a little thrilled by the dream, a little curious. He half wanted to fall back asleep again in the hope that he may slip back into it and see how the rest of it turned out.

* * *

Catherine was careful to enter the forest at the same place where she and Robin de Noir had emerged two nights previous so she could retrace her steps and hopefully find the missing brooch. It was a chilly morning with little sunshine, thick grey clouds hung over the entire Valley, promising rain at some point later in the day.

She walked in a straight line in the direction which she estimated Castle De Noir to be, scanning the ground carefully and all the while keeping her ears open for the sound of someone approaching - the last thing she needed was to be captured again by any De Noirs who happened to come across her in the forest. Last night, she found a map of the Valley in an old book in the library and told herself that she would only search as far as the small stream which bisected forest; if she had not found the cameo by the time she reached the stream then she would just have to accept that it was probably never going to be returned to her, for if she crossed the stream she was allowing herself to stray dangerously close to Castle De Noir which lay on the other side.

“Well, well, well! It seems Little Red Riding Hood has chosen to enter the forest again!” Catherine nearly jumped out of her skin when Robin de Noir suddenly landed in front of her, having leapt down from a tree in which he was sitting, “But she ought to be careful and stay clear of the Big Bad Wolf.” That morning she was wearing a pale blue dress printed with minute cornflower blue flowers and a long red silk cloak, so that was why he was talking such nonsense.

“What are you doing back here again, you stupid girl? Do you want to get caught?”

Initially Catherine felt a little afraid to see him, but he didn’t appear to have any intention of hurting her - only insulting her, it seemed - so she decided to answer him, “I lost something the other night in the forest. Something which I need to find.”

“Is it worth risking your life for?”

“It is particularly dear to me.”

“Particularly dear to you? Is it really? Well, by golly you had better find it then, old sport. Cheerio, toodle-pip and all that!” he said in a plummy voice - not unlike the ridiculous accent Josiah Flitch had affected when he was drunk on sherry - to mock her way of speaking, “Good grief! Did they teach you to talk like that at that fancy boarding school of yours or are all Merryweathers as pretentious and snobbish as you, princess?”

“Go away and leave me alone you imbecile! Just go away!” Catherine shouted. She gathered up her skirts and stormed  away, all the while cursing herself for the childish tears which rose unbidden to sting her eyes, for the furious red blush which burned over her face and the back of her neck.

“I said, leave me alone!” she snapped, her voice wavering, threatening to crack when it became apparent that he was following her. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and tried to surreptitiously scrub at her eyes. _Not him,_ she thought, _He can never see me cry. I shan’t let him make me cry. Not ever._

“Look here, calm down.” he said stiffly, “I’ll help you look for whatever it is, how about that?”

“Ha!” Catherine snorted contemptuously, “Of course you will, because you’re so very nice like that, aren’t you?” she said, her voice laden with sarcasm.

“And there you go again, acting like a spoiled brat!”

“How dare you! I am not a spoiled brat!”

“Oh, but you are! I kindly offered you my help but you’re too proud to accept it. Well, if that’s the case I bid you good day.” And with that, he turned on his heel and began walking away at a leisurely pace. Catherine watched him go and wondered what to do, she had gotten what she wanted, he was going away, but she also knew that there was no way she would find the brooch on her own.

“Wait!” she called after him, inwardly cursing herself, “Wait. I am sorry. Please help me.”

Robin turned around, a badly suppressed smile playing over his lips, “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s, “There’s no need to rub it in. I’ve already apologised once.”

“Alright, alright! Calm down, kitten. I’ll help you.” he laughed, walking back towards her, “What is it that you’ve lost?”

“A brooch.”

“No, I’ve still got that.”

“Not that one - but I do still want that back - this one is a cameo brooch.”

“Right. Shall we walk?” Robin said, gesturing in a different direction from the way they just came from, “You were walking the wrong way before. We came from this direction the other night.”

“Oh.”

They walked in silence, glancing around for any sign of an elusive sparkle amongst the grass. _He’s just helping you find the brooch. That’s it. Nothing more,_ Catherine told herself, _You don’t even have to talk to him. In fact, it’s better of you don’t._

“So what makes this brooch so special that you are willing to risk your life by returning to the forest to look for it?” Robin asked quite suddenly.

Catherine sighed, she really didn’t want to tell him the story behind the brooch only for him to undermine it or mock her again, “It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“A boy I used to know.”

“Oh. A boy.” Robin repeated almost sullenly. Catherine turned to look at him but he had turned the other way.

“Yes. Sadly, he passed away four years ago.” she stated. From the corner of her eye she saw Robin look at her but this time she was the one who turned the other way to avoid his gaze.

Another lull of silence.

She noticed only then that he had a half eaten apple in one hand and was carrying a book tucked under one arm. So that’s what he was doing up in that tree. She tilted her head to read the title of the book.

“Doctor Faustus!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself.

“You sound shocked.” Robin said, raising an eyebrow, “It may surprise you to know that we De Noirs can actually read.”

“I never assumed that you couldn’t. It’s just that some people disapprove of that book. You know, because it’s about Hell and demons and the Devil.”

“If there’s one thing can be said for my family, you can read any amount of scandalous books and they won’t care. They positively encourage it.” Robin laughed.

 “I remember a girl from school named Posy Forsythe was caught with a copy. Sister Martha slapped her across the face and confiscated it.”

“You went to a nuns’ school?”

“No. Sister Martha was the only nun, she taught us Latin.”

“Latin, eh? What else did they teach you there?”

“Nothing of any real importance.” Catherine said dismissively, shrugging.

“So your parents spent probably hundreds of pounds on your education, and you’re telling me that you didn’t learn anything?”

“Of course I learned things. I can dance and sing and paint and sew. I can speak French and Latin. I can arrange flowers and make pleasant conversation and walk with a straight posture. I can play the piano and I have nice handwriting. But would you _really_ class those things as important?”

“In certain situations, I suppose.”

“Well, right now I am walking in the forest with a De Noir. What would you suggest I do to defend myself should you choose to attack me? Paint a landscape? Arrange a bouquet of flowers and try to fend you off with it? Or perhaps I could scream at you in Latin until you go away. You’re right, those things would be useful in certain situations, but since I will never attend a debutants’ ball or any seasons in London, they’re useless.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the teachers would have been allowed to hit their pupils at a fancy school like that.” Robin remarked.

“They weren’t. But Sister Martha would often lash out anyway. She had a very short temper and was extremely strict. The other teachers all knew about it but they never did anything.”

“Did she ever hit you?”

“Just once when I was twelve. Myself and a couple of other girls were being a little too noisy in the corridors. She came out of her classroom and shouted at us, then she rapped each of us over the knuckles with a wooden ruler.”

The trees thinned and they came out on the banks of the stream.

“I can’t go any further. I told myself I would only go as far as the stream so I wasn’t going too near your castle.” Catherine explained.

“A wise decision. Maybe you aren’t as stupid as you seem.” Robin grinned. This time Catherine didn’t take offence to his slight, she had come to realise that he was rather fond of poking fun at her.   

They walked together back to the edge of the Merryweather estate. She was just about to start in the direction of the house when he touched her shoulder for a split second to stop her, then quickly dropped his arm back down to his side.

“I will keep looking.” he said quietly, glancing around at everything, the grass, the trees, the sky, the house, anything but her.

“Thank you, Mister de Noir.” Catherine said primly, suddenly preoccupied with straightening her cloak.

Robin smiled faintly at her formality, “My pleasure, Miss Merryweather.”


	12. Chapter Eleven

Catherine found the door to Hadaway & Son Solicitors unlocked but was rather surprised not to find Josiah Flitch hunched over his customary desk in the corner of the waiting room. He appeared a moment later, however, through the door to Mr. Hadaway’s office, a scroll of paper in hand.

“Good mornin’, mum! To what to do I owe the pleasure?” he greeted her brightly, folding the paper carelessly and stuffing it without ceremony in his pocket.

“Well, Josiah, I thought what with Mister Hadaway still detained in London, we might take the opportunity to sort out the files and surprise him when he comes back.”

“Not really what _I’d_ consider a nice surprise.” Flitch pouted.

“Oh really?” Catherine smiled, “And what _does_ Josiah Flitch consider a nice surprise?”

“Why, it’s nothin’ I could say in front of a fine lady such as yourself!” Flitch countered, grinning wickedly, “Mister ’adaway would box me ears if ’e found out I’d told you such a thing!”

Catherine laughed as she considered the frankly absurd mental image of the elderly solicitor boxing the ears of his skinny beanpole of a clerk, “Fair enough, I don’t wish to get you into trouble. But what do you say about sorting the files?”

Flitch scratched his chin thoughtfully, “It might make my job a whole lot easier by havin’ things organised round ’ere.”

“You _know_ it will. Come on, let’s get to work!”

They decided that the best system of filing would be to arrange all of the documents by kind: wills, birth certificates, marriage certificates, business agreements, contracts, ledgers etc. etc. and then alphabetically by the surnames of those concerned. For example, if one were wishing to find the will of a certain Mister Thomas P. Prewitt; one need only go to the drawer marked “O-R” of the filing cabinet marked “Wills” and flick through the files until they found “Prewitt, Thomas” and there he is, right between “Pretty, Laurence” and “Pyrkins, Astrid”.

It soon became apparent though, that it had been rather a long time since the solicitor’s offices had last undergone a vigorous Spring cleaning. A _very_ long time. Thick dust layered almost every surface and reduced both Catherine and Flitch to violent coughing fits whenever it was disturbed - by the time they finally regained control of their lungs several minutes later, their eyes were streaming, they felt terribly sick, and the dust had only settled elsewhere. Cobwebs of monstrous proportions hung suspended up in the corners of the room and from bookshelves and lamp fixtures. They spent some time unsuccessfully trying to guess what colour the dusty old curtains had once been - they had faded to an odd shade, somewhere between colourless and a dull grey and had turned so mouldy in some places that they had literally _rotted_ away. At one point, Catherine opened a drawer only to close it again with a shriek when she discovered that something large and furry had gotten itself trapped in there and died, Josiah stepped forward to do something about disposing of the body but after a mere moment of inspection and a shriek louder than Catherine’s, he too slammed the drawer shut again and told her, wide-eyed and pale-faced, that he wasn’t entirely sure that the creature was actually dead. They both agreed that they would leave that drawer well enough alone until sometime later.

They worked steadily for several hours until they were interrupted in the early afternoon by an unexpected visitor. Catherine was crouched sorting through a pile of birth certificates, placing them in alphabetical order in their new filing cabinet (Dankworth, Julian; Deiryme, Martha; Dowele, Barnabas) when she heard the office door open, she paused and craned her neck to look around the cabinet.

A young woman was standing in the doorway, glancing around shyly, taking in the disorder of the room. She couldn’t have been older than Catherine herself and was rather lovely, very much like that traditional image of a pretty country lass which was much romanticized at the time - you know the one, perhaps a farmer’s daughter or Little Bo Peep in a children’s book of nursery rhymes - a little on the plump side with rosy cheeks and dimples, curls the colour of wheat and big blue eyes. She seemed somewhat nervous and half turned to leave but then Josiah chose that moment to emerge from the back room.

“Just found another pile of birth certificates to add to-” he stopped short when he caught sight of the newcomer, “Oh! ’ello Evie, what can I do for you?”

“Hello, Josiah. I was wondering if I might speak to Mister Hadaway - if he isn’t too busy and can spare a moment, that is.” she spoke quietly, with her eyes downcast.

“Mister ’adaway’s still in London on business. Don’t know when ’e’ll be back but I’ll write your name in ’is appointments book so ’e knows to see you when ’e _does_ return. Cathy, where’d we put the appointments book?”

Catherine stood up from where she was crouched behind the filing cabinet. The young woman stared at her with an expression of equal parts awe and wide-eyed horror, evidently she hadn’t been aware of Catherine’s presence until then.

“Oh M’lady!” she gasped, curtsying with obvious difficulty, “I do beg your pardon! I didn’t see you there!” It was at that moment that Catherine realised that the girl was, in fact, with child. She still probably had a couple of months of pregnancy left to go, but nevertheless, her stomach was already very noticeably rounded and restricted her movement somewhat.

“No need to apologise! The book is on Mister Hadaway’s desk, Josiah. We put all of the especially important things on there for the time being, remember?”

While Josiah excused himself to retrieve said book, Catherine made her way through the maze of desks and filing cabinets, “We’ve been tidying since nine o’clock this morning. Believe it or not, it was ten times worse before we started.” she explained, smiling as she came to stand before the girl.

“I know. I’ve only been in here once before - to register my marriage - but I remember how untidy it was. So dingy and cluttered.” the young woman was rather softly spoken and seemed too shy to maintain eye contact for longer than a few seconds.

“I suppose the fact that the firm is understaffed doesn’t particularly help. There’s all these other desks here but no other clerks.”

“That’s because Mister Hadaway doesn’t have any sons, you see. Normally, the head of the firm has his sons work for him as apprentices and clerks until they become solicitors too. Then the firm is eventually passed on to the eldest son while the other sons get jobs in the London offices or at other law firms. That was the family tradition for over fifty years. But then Mister Hadaway didn’t marry.”

“So what do you think will happen to the firm now there’s no one to inherit it?”

“I think…” the girl lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I think Mister Hadaway will take a partner. I bet in a few years from now we’ll see “Hadaway and Flitch” painted above the door outside.”

“Really? You think he’ll take _Josiah_ for a partner?”

“Yes. And then, when the time comes, Josiah will take over the entire business. Don’t tell him I told you this though, his head is already big enough to start with.” Catherine spluttered with laughter.

“’ere what’s so funny?” Josiah demanded, appearing at her side with the appointments book clutched to his chest.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Catherine said sweetly, sharing a sly smile with the girl. As Josiah flicked through the book to find the correct page, Catherine took a moment to contemplate him and digest the information she had just received; she did like Josiah and certainly found him amusing, but she wasn’t certain that he could ever be the best candidate for such a task - no, Josiah was far too weak, too much of a whiny sycophant to take over and maintain a successful law firm one day. But the sad truth was that very probably, sometime in the not too distant future, the name of Flitch would join Hadaway on the sign above the door, and then one day Hadaway would be gone, and the firm would be christened “Flitch & Son Solicitors”.

“What was it you was wantin’ to talk to Mister ’adaway ’bout?” Flitch inquired, hunting about for a quill and ink.

The young woman glanced anxiously at Catherine and reddened visibly. Catherine busied herself looking for a quill and inkpot to give to Josiah and pretended that she wasn’t actually paying any attention.

“With Freddie… _away,_ his mother thought it would be best if I came to speak to Mister Hadaway about sorting his affairs and also to see if anything can be done to provide for the babies - should everyone turn out to be right, that is.” the young woman’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Still ’aven’t given up ’ope, ’ave you?” Josiah replied, smiling sympathetically. Catherine thrust a quill and inkpot into his hands and went to sort through some marriage certificates on the other side of the room.

“The other day we received a letter from the Navy Board. It said they found it “highly unlikely” that there were any survivors. Even Freddie’s mother has given up hope. But I won’t. Freddie promised me before he left that no matter where in the world he ended up, he would always find his way back to me and the babies. He _promised_.”

“Right. Well…I’ll just make a note of your name ’ere and I promise you’ll be the first to see Mister ’adaway when ’e returns.” Josiah  muttered, nibbling awkwardly on the end of the quill.

“Thank you, Josiah. Good day, Lady Merryweather, it was an honour.” the young woman dropped another awkward curtsy and hurried from the office, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Catherine cleared her throat uncomfortably, “I didn’t catch her name.”

“That’s Evie Fletcher. ’er father owns the grocers.”

“Really, Josiah, you might at least have taken her into Mister Hadaway’s office so she could conduct her business in private. It was plain to see that she was embarrassed to explain such a delicate matter in front of someone else. Especially me!” Catherine reprimanded, still flicking through the handful of marriage certificates.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise.” _That,_ Catherine thought,  _is why you will make a poor replacement for Mister Hadaway. You’re oblivious when it comes to running this business properly._

“’er ’usband goes by the name of Freddie Fletcher. ’e was in the Navy but ’is ship sunk somewhere off the coast of Africa. The entire crew’s been lost at sea for almost three weeks. Evie’s expectin’ twins so there’s a lot of worry as to ’ow she’ll provide for the babies.”

 “Josiah, what did I just say about keeping the business of others private? Really, this is terribly unprofessional of you!”

“But you just ’eard ’alf of the story already! I’m just fillin’ in the gaps for you! Besides, everyone in the village knows anyway.”

“That is irrelevant. You shouldn’t be revealing intimate details about Mister Hadaway’s clients to any random person.”

“But _you_ ain’t just any random person,” Flitch said in a patronisingly indulgent way, “You’re the Lady Catherine Merryweather.”

Catherine gave an exasperated sigh, she could tell by his triumphant grin that he thought his retort clever and that he had won the argument, and that she would not be able to make him see sense.  They worked in silence from then on, with Catherine still organising the marriage certificates. One particular piece of paper stopped her short, though. It was the record of the marriage of eighteen-year-old Evie Huett to twenty-year-old Frederick Fletcher. _Oh, that poor, poor girl,_ Catherine thought sorrowfully.

Catherine returned to Moonacre in the late afternoon. She and Josiah had made a significant dent in the cleaning of the office, having removed the majority of the dust and cobwebs and even tore down the faded mouldy old curtains. They had started to put in place a practical filing system and had only stopped when they both found themselves to be rather exhausted. Catherine was all for returning the next day to finish organising the files, but Josiah had told her that he would be travelling to London in the morning to deliver some important documents to Mister Hadaway concerning the case he was trying to resolve. Instead they agreed to continue when he returned the week after.

She was just about to pull the bell at the gatehouse to summon Digweed down from the Manor to open the gate for her, when something caught her eye. It was the cameo brooch, hanging on a length of black ribbon from one of the railings of the gate, coiling in a spiral as it spun in the wind. Catherine reached out and tugged it down - the ribbon was tied in a loose knot and came away easily - looking down at the pale ivory profile set into the shell pink background, she found herself laughing happily, despite the fact she had tears in her eyes.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Robin’s grandmother was so old and frail that she hardly ever left her tower bedroom, having long since given up trying to negotiate the numerous stairs. She had also gone half blind in her old age and suffered from arthritis. It was a lonely existence, Robin often thought, living to such an age whilst being confined to one room, so he visited her as often as he could, listened to her stories which he had heard a hundred times before, read to her and occasionally even aided her with her knitting (his father would surely sneer at him if he became aware of that particular fact).

Today she was sitting bundled up beside the fire, knitting a pair of little white baby socks while Robin lay on his stomach upon the hearth rug at her feet, reading Doctor Faustus again.

“I’m knitting these for your Aunt Oonagh.” his grandmother informed him over the rhythmic clicking of her knitting needles. Despite her blindness, Nerissa de Noir was an accomplished knitter, having learned the skill from her nursemaid when she was a small girl and thus memorised the required hand movements after so many years of performing them. Whenever a new baby was expected amongst the De Noirs, she took pride in knitting the child something.

“I thought she’d just had a baby not so long ago?”

“Yes, a little girl. She’s expecting again. It isn’t healthy if you ask me, to be with child so soon after another.” Robin, who, at the age of eighteen, had really no opinion on the matter of babies and the like, turned back to his book.

“You always were a strangely quiet boy, my dear Robin-redbreast. Like a closed book. You barely even cried as a babe. Shall I tell you what my maid tells me of you?”

“Does your maid still spy for you about the castle, grandmother?”

“Well, an old woman trapped in her room needs _someone_ to tell her the goings on of this place. No one else bothers to keep me informed. Mark my words, if I hear so much as a whisper of dissension in this castle, I shall summon your father to me immediately and give him a good talking to. I shan’t have the castle nor the clan falling to ruin.”

“For fear of incurring your wrath, I doubt it would dare.”

“I often worry how things will turn out when I am dead and gone. We can’t have standards slipping now, can we? Fie! I’ve quite forgotten my train of thought! What was it I was saying before?”

“You were telling me you’d enlisted your maid to spy on me.”

“To merely keep an eye on you. Ah yes! She tells me you are still a quiet boy, prone to periods of thoughtfulness and solemnity. Some days you will run wild about the forest with your cousins, and then other days you hide yourself away on your own - most likely with a book, I imagine?”

“Yes.”

“She tells me that your father despairs of you sometimes.”

Robin shifted uncomfortably, “I think you mean all of the time. He’s ashamed to call me his son. I often fear that he will go against convention and name someone else as his successor, perhaps Henry instead.” he muttered.

“What? That dunderhead?”

“Grandmother! He’s your grandson!”

“I only spoke the truth, he _is_ a fool. And your father would be an even bigger fool if he chose him for his heir.”

“David, then. He’ll probably choose David.”

“David doesn’t possess half of your brains. Don’t fret, my boy. You’ll make a fine Coeur when your time comes.”

“ _If_ it comes.” Robin added ruefully.

“Oh hush! Anyway, back to what I was saying before. My maid also mentioned that, although Richard has a new girl on his arm with every new moon, _you_ spend your days surprisingly bereft of female company. Though it is not through lack of female interest, you’re a handsome boy and most of the girls in the castle would give their right arm for the Coeur’s heir to favour them.”

“I…umm…” Robin blushed and stammered nervously.

“Cat got your tongue, Robin red-breast?”

“I don’t understand why people are making such a fuss over the fact I don’t dally with the maids or serving girls. I’ll probably just end up marrying some distant cousin anyway so I don’t see how what I do or don’t do with someone now matters.”

“Do you know why we have that tradition? That the Coeur must always marry a De Noir cousin or some other distant relative? To keep the bloodline pure. To ensure that the De Noir clan does not die out. Of course, your father went and messed the whole thing up by marrying your mother. A simple farmer’s daughter! Yes, he was always a wilful boy, I can’t say I was all that surprised that he did such a thing.”

“So who do you suppose _I’ll_ end up with?”

Robin’s grandmother fell quiet, she lowered her head to gaze unseeingly down with a furrowed brow at her ever twitching knitting needles. Finally she said delicately, “Your father and I have several possible matches in mind.” _Ah_ , Robin thought, _so they’re already talking about it. Hell, knowing my grandmother, she’ll have been planning this since the day I was born!_

“Don’t _I_ get any say?”

“Perhaps. _If_ I can convince your father, that is. He is more focussed on what would be the most advantageous marriage. I, however, am more concerned for your happiness.” 

“Remind me to thank you on my wedding day.” Robin said, unable to keep the sarcasm from entering his voice.

“You need not take that tone with me! We all have a duty to do things which we would rather not. Need I remind you of the sacrifice I had to make for the good of this clan?”

“No, grandmother. I apologise.”

“Well, I am going to tell you anyway. A Coeur cannot be reminded too many times of his duty and of the history of the illustrious clan of De Noir.”

“But I’m not a Coeur yet.” Robin said half-heartedly, knowing full well that nothing could dissuade his grandmother from telling this bloody, tragic tale which she was so fond of retelling, despite the fact it caused her great pain.

“My older brother Greyson de Noir was heir and named successor to clan De Noir. He was destined to become Coeur upon the death of our father. My brother was probably the handsomest boy in all of England; hair as black as a raven’s feathers, skin like alabaster, his eyes two dark pools flecked with silver starlight. Oh, what a lovely, rare creature! A heartbreaker. But Greyson was a lot like you, Robin-redbreast, solitary. He didn’t take much interest in the girls of the castle and spent much of his time off on his own in the forest.

My mother planned for him to marry our cousin Penelope de Noir - her brother Lorcan is David’s grandfather. Whereas I, not being the heir to the clan, was blessed with a little more freedom and choice in the selection of my future husband. As it turned out, I had fallen in love with a young man named Henri de Villeduval, the friend of one of our French cousins who was staying with us that Summer. Henri reciprocated my feelings and intended to ask my father for my hand before he was due to return to France at the end of the Summer.

One night though, just as I was getting ready for bed, Greyson came to me in my room and told me there was something which he needed to confess to me. He confided in me that he had fallen in love with a young woman and was blessed to have her love in return. I told him that our parents intended for him to marry our cousin, in keeping with the old tradition, and it was his duty to do whatever was required of him for the good of the clan. Greyson looked heartbroken in that moment and quietly bade me goodnight. He placed a kiss upon my forehead - something which he had not done for many years - then turned and walked out of my room without a backward glance. That was the last time I ever saw him, my beautiful brother Greyson.

It was discovered the next morning that he had gone missing, had taken his horse from the stables and rode out in the dead of night. Not even the sentries on the walls had seen him leave. My father sent riders out to search for him and all day I cried and worried until the riders returned with their black news. They returned later that evening with my brother Greyson in a coffin and a letter from Sir William Merryweather. It turns out that the girl Greyson had spoken to me about, the girl whom he loved was none other than Sir William Merryweather’s only daughter, Lisette. Of course, Lisette Merryweather, hailed as the loveliest girl in all of England, a girl whom plain, freckled young me had felt sick with envy of after seeing her just once in Silverydew - who else could capture Greyson’s heart if not her? The letter explained that she had confessed everything to her father, that she and the young De Noir heir had encountered one another on the road to Silverydew and thus started a secret passionate love-affair. It suddenly made sense why Greyson had spent all his days alone in the forest. They had made plans to elope and had agreed to meet at midnight at what was seemingly their regular meeting place, a clearing in the forest with a large oak tree standing at its centre. But the Merryweather girl never loved my poor brother, it was all just a ploy to do away with the only heir to the De Noir clan, and so she handed over all of Greyson’s love letters to her father and confessed the whole thing. And what was waiting for my poor, handsome, lovesick fool of a brother when he rode out that night to the clearing? Not Lisette Merryweather, but her three older brothers, all armed to the teeth. They killed my brother. Cut his pretty head straight off.

With no other sons to name as successor, my father was forced to betroth me to my cousin, the son of his elder sister, Crispin de Noir. And so my wedding took place the day after my brother’s funeral - as you can imagine, it was an extremely sad affair - and Henri de Villeduval returned to France at the end of the Summer.”

A long silence stretched fro several minutes. Robin’s grandmother was crying a little, as she always did when she spoke of her brother, so he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“Ah, thank you, my dear. I tell you this story for two reasons. Firstly, we all must make sacrifices for the good of the clan - the Coeur most of all - so if you intend to be a greater man than your father, you had better start making those sacrifices now. Secondly, so that you may know the true nature of the Merryweathers. They have been our sworn enemies for hundreds of years for a reason, Robin. Their trickery and deceit knows no limit. And remember, even the loveliest face can conceal a serpent beneath - my poor brother Greyson learnt that the hard way.”

Robin was barely listening, for an idea had quite suddenly occurred to him. He remembered his dream from before and what the Merryweather girl had said to him in it: _“You don’t_ want _to catch me, Robin de Noir. You want to_ win _me.”_. Lisette Merryweather had been clever, she had known Greyson’s infatuation with her and used it to her advantage. But what was to say that he couldn’t pull the same trick? Befriend the Merryweather girl and win her trust - make her love him, even - and, when the time was right, take the pearls from her.

“You have gone very quiet again, Robin-redbreast.”

“Just thinking.”

“Well, you can make yourself useful while you think. Here, give me your hands and help me wind my wool.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Catherine and Benjamin were sitting at the table in the dining room while Digweed served them breakfast. Catherine watched with morbid fascination as Benjamin added two raw eggs to a jug of cold coffee. She was almost entirely certain that her brother was not actually going to drink the foul concoction up until the point that he proved her wrong by taking a deep gulp.

“What in the name of God is that ghastly stuff you’re drinking?!” she cried, her eyes wide as she watched him knock back the mud coloured foulness.

“People drink it to line their stomachs before they consume alcohol. It stops them from getting sick and having a headache the morning after.” Benjamin replied.

“But you drink it _every_ morning!”

Her brother merely shrugged and raised the jug to his lips again.

“Benjamin, why do you drink so much?” Catherine asked quietly, unable to actually look him in the eye, “Not that awful stuff, I mean…What I mean is, I’m forever seeing you wandering about the house with a decanter in hand. Port, whiskey, sherry - I don’t think you really care what you drink. Why is that?”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Benjamin put the jug down a little heavily, causing all the crockery on the table to shudder. When Catherine worked up the courage to actually look at him, she found that he could barely look at her either; instead he stared with furrowed brow straight down at his hand which had curled into a tight fist upon the table.

“You’re sad, aren’t you? That’s why you drink.” she finally said, her voice no more than a whisper, “You’re always sad, I realise that now. But what has made you this way?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Digweed shift uncomfortably where he was poised in the doorway, a tray of bacon in hand. Benjamin sensed the movement too and raised his eyes to give the man-servant a warning look. Plainly there was a message in that look which Catherine did not understand; Digweed obviously did though, for, with lips compressed into a straight line, he placed the tray upon the table and hurried out of the room. Now they were alone but still Benjamin said nothing.

“What is it? Digweed knows something, I can tell, but you don’t want him to say. What is it that I can’t know? Are you still sad over mother’s death? No, wait. That’s not it, is it? This goes back much longer than that…I remember now. While I was away at school you used to send me letters all the time, long funny letters with drawings and sometimes presents. But when I was about thirteen you stopped sending regular letters. I was lucky if I received two or three letters a year from you, and they were all so brief and…cold almost. What happened to you while I was at school?”

“Catherine, be quiet!” Benjamin suddenly exploded, making her jump. Catherine was utterly dumbfounded, _never_ in her life had she ever heard Benjamin raise his voice - least of all to her. Not even when she was three years old and had snuck into his room and ruined several of his books by scrawling pictures of unicorns across their pages. No, seventeen year old Benjamin had merely laughed and called her a charming little artist.

But now it was different and Catherine turned her face away to hide the tears which rose immediately to her eyes. In doing so, she caught a glimpse out the French Doors of something which made her blood run cold. _Surely not,_ she thought, leaning back in her chair. She swung the chair onto its back legs to get a better view…and promptly fell backwards with a shriek, hurting her elbow and derriere. Digweed, who had only just cautiously slunk back into the room with a rack of toast, hurried forward to help her up while Benjamin gaped at her, open-mouthed. She risked another glance out the window; the sight of Robin de Noir pacing back and forward on the garden wall while spinning his hat on his finger had shocked her into falling from her chair - she couldn't see him now though, he had probably wandered out of view along the wall.

“Excuse me!” she gasped and quickly ran from the room.

Catherine was furious as she stalked through the gardens to find where the fool had wandered off to, furious with Benjamin for keeping secrets and then shouting at her, furious with Robin de Noir for thinking he could just turn up at the most inopportune moment and swagger about like he owned the place. She eventually found him in an ancient oak tree which grew right up against the garden wall, he sat on a large overhanging branch, swinging his legs and grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s about time too, kitten! I’ve been waiting out here for almost an hour!” he said in a mock-serious voice. Catherine, who knew very well that he was joking, bristled nonetheless; he has the audacity to scold her for not coming out to speak to him quickly enough while he acts like - well, his normal, disagreeable, petulant self?!

“What on Earth do _you_ want?” she hissed.

“To speak with you.” he replied, quite unfazed by the venomous tone to her voice.

“Well, _I_ have no desire whatsoever to speak with _you_. Please leave.” Catherine didn’t even wait for a reply, merely turned on her heel and began to walk away.

“What a pity!” Robin called after her, “I suppose I shall just have to keep coming back to sit here every day until you listen to me!”

This made Catherine stop abruptly in her tracks and wheel around, “You do realise we can see you from the house, don’t you? What if my brother sees you? He isn’t blind or stupid. Then you’ll be in hot water, won’t you?”

“Ah! I see you’re worried for my wellbeing, kitten.” Robin said triumphantly, “You’re not quite the Ice Queen I thought you were.”

“No. If Benjamin sets Wrolf on you for trespassing then I’m not going to lose any sleep. You won’t be pestering me anymore.”

“I think your heart would break.”

“It wouldn’t. Now get down. Not on this side of the wall!”

Robin laughed as he pulled himself back up into the tree, “I’m here to make a deal with you.” he said seriously once he had calmed and seemingly no longer found Catherine’s anger and distress that he had been just about to actually set foot on Merryweather soil quite so hilarious.

“I’m not going to make a deal with you!” Catherine snapped, outraged, “Goodbye.” Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but linger, a little curious of his proposed deal.

Robin smiled to himself when he realised that she had grudgingly gave him her attention, “I believe you have something which belongs to me.”

“And I believe you have a _couple_ of things which belong to me!” Catherine replied sardonically.

Robin seemingly chose to ignore this, “I want you to give me my ring back. It has my family crest on it. I believe it slipped into your hand that night I helped you to escape.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“Well, how about this pretty brooch?” he said, taking Catherine's mother's brooch from his pocket.

“Fine. Alright.” Catherine relented after some thought, “And I want my scarf back too.”

“No, because then you’d have two things and I’d only have gotten one.”

“They were mine to begin with!” Catherine pointed out indignantly, “And besides, it's odd that you keep wearing my scarf all the time like that.” Robin merely smiled down at her.

“Go and fetch the ring and when you come back we can talk about the scarf.” he said. Catherine was more than a little put out at being ordered around by such a horrid boy but, nevertheless,  ran to her room anyway to retrieve the ring from where she had hidden it in her jewellery box.

When she returned, Robin had jumped down from the branch and was standing in the garden waiting for her.

“You shouldn't have done that.” she said disapprovingly, “What if someone sees you?”

“My dear lady Catherine, could it be that you are actually concerned for me?” Robin taunted.

“Not in the slightest.” Catherine said stiffly, “I am, however, concerned that I might be caught having dealings with a De Noir. Here is your ring.”

“Thank you, and here is your brooch. Now, about this here scarf…” he trailed off and pretended to be in deep contemplation while Catherine glowered at him.

“Aha! I know! In order to win back this scarf you must do one thing for me.” Robin said, smiling slyly. Catherine didn’t like the look of that smile.

"What is it?" she said impatiently.

"Kiss me."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

“I…I beg your pardon?” Catherine stammered, certain that she had misheard.

“Kiss me and I shall return your scarf to you.” Robin reiterated.

Catherine took a sharp intake of breath and stepped backwards, “You must be joking!”

“I would never joke about a thing such as this.” Robin said with dignity.

“Then you’re mad! I’d never kiss you!”

“What a pity!” Robin tutted, “I suppose there’s nothing else to do but spread a rumour around Silverydew that you are madly in love with me and gave this scarf to me as a favour, like the knights of old.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Catherine scoffed, “Besides, no one would believe you. The people of Silverydew know me. They are loyal to _me_. They’d never trust a De Noir because they remember how your ancestors ransacked this valley; looting, killing cattle, burning crops, kidnapping their daughters.”

“That may be so.” Robin conceded, “But what’s to say that the people of _London_ would be so disbelieving?”

“What?” Catherine said in a strangled voice.

“Oh yes, the people of London do love gossip, don’t they? And the news that a lovely young lady from a family as old and illustrious as yours has chosen a thoroughly unsuitable suitor would be the story of the decade, would it not? You Merryweathers value your reputation more than anything, don’t you? Imagine your brother’s reaction when the news finally reaches his ears.”

“You really are an awful boy.”

Robin softened somewhat, sensing that her resolve was gradually crumbling, “It’s just one little kiss, it’ll be over in a second. Here, I’ll tell you what, you don’t even have to kiss me properly, just on the cheek.”

Catherine mulled this over: really, a mere moment of embarrassment would be worth it if it meant her reputation would remain be unscathed at the end of it, “Just on your cheek? You promise?” she said uncertainly.

“Yes, I promise. Now be sure to kiss my cheek right here, not on the material of my mask.” he instructed.

“Alright! I understand! You’ve made your point quite clear!” Catherine snapped. Robin sniggered then badly suppressed his smile when she shot him a murderous look and seemed as if she was about to turn and walk away.

Slowly, Catherine stepped towards him. Robin hurried to make up the rest of the space, beaming like a child on Christmas Day. Nervously, she took a deep breath and let it out again shakily. Robin was a little taller than her, so she had to stand on her tiptoes and place a hand on his right shoulder to steady herself. Catherine leant closer, wobbling, and ended up placing her lips very near the left-hand corner of his mouth. Immediately, Robin’s hands were at her waist, pulling her closer and holding her there steady, caught. He moved his head slightly, nudging her lips fully onto his. For one tingling second they stood like this; the marigolds were molten.

When they broke apart Robin grinned impishly. Suddenly, he turned and, in a great running leap, grabbed the low overhanging branch he had been sitting on and swung himself back up into the tree like a monkey.

“Lovely! Just lovely!” he said with evident relish.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Catherine snarled, “Just give me my scarf.”

“No, I think I’ll be keeping this.” he said matter-of-factly.

Catherine was indignant to the point of outrage, “You promised!”

“I lied.” Robin laughed pityingly.

“You wicked boy! You awful, lying-”

“Goodbye!” Robin called cheerily, jumping down from the branch and landing out of sight on the other side of the wall. Catherine heard him laughing as he ran away.

Never before in her entire life had Catherine felt quite so infuriated, so humiliated, with a yell she turned and flounced back into the gardens. She stormed through the pergola to the lily pond, her arms rigid by her sides with her hands balled fists so tight that her nails cut into her palms. She found herself a long thin stick, snapped from a hawthorn tree and began to whip the heads from the tall tulips in the flowerbeds near the pond, letting out a scream of rage every time she swung. She thrashed the stick left and right and soon the yellow and red striped heads of the flowers were flying in all directions. After a while, she resorted to merely hitting one spot over and over again, focusing all her rage on one plant, until-

“Catherine, stop!”

She froze with the stick still raised above her head, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasped for air. Benjamin stood on the other side of the pond with his arms folded. The air was littered with golden and scarlet petals which floated slowly back down to earth. He leaned down, reaching, and picked up a tulip head which had flown through the air across the pond to land at his feet.

“At the height of the Tulip Mania, a single bulb was enough to buy a Dutch country home.” he said dryly, flicking the head into the pond where it bobbed in the murky water amongst the water lilies, “What, may I ask, do you think you are doing?”

“I was angry.” Catherine said breathlessly, tossing her head to get her hair out of her face.

A flicker of understanding crossed her brother’s face, “Yes, I gathered that. The last time you did this, you were ten years old and mother had taken away your jewellery box for some reason.”

Catherine didn’t say anything, merely threw the stick away behind her.

Benjamin seemed to struggle to find the words he wanted to say, finally he cleared his throat uncomfortably and spoke, “Catherine, I owe you an apology. Shouting at you like that…well, it was wrong and I’m terribly sorry. But you must try understand that there are some questions which I _cannot_ answer. Some things which must remain private.” Oh. He thought that her anger was directed at him because of what had happened over breakfast.

“But _why_? Why can’t you talk to me?” Catherine pleaded, “We used to be so close, you and I. Talk to me, Benjamin. Let me help you.”

Benjamin’s expression was utterly tragic, without another word, he turned and made his way back up to the Manor. Not long after, Catherine followed. Once inside, she went up to her bathroom and scrubbed her lips with water until they bled.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_She was walking down a long darkened corridor. At the end there was a door, a sliver of light was visible around all its edges. She reached out her hand and grasped the doorknob, felt the coolness of the metal beneath her palm. Steeling her resolve, she twisted it and swung the door open._

Catherine awoke to another beautiful sunny morning. Sitting up in bed, she reached her arms high above her head and stretched, sighing with pleasure as she felt her muscles loosen and her bones click. Glancing across at her beside table, she was surprised to see a letter placed there along with the customary glass of milk and plate of sugar biscuits which were left for her every morning. Curious, she picked up the envelope and inspected it; it was made of thick parchment, on the front her name ‘Lady Catherine Merryweather’ had been written in an elegant black script, turning it over she saw that the wax seal had been embossed with the image of a cross - ah, now she had an inclination as to the sender!

Tearing open the envelope, she read the letter inside as she drank her milk and ate the biscuits. She was right, it was from Old Parson. He had written to invite her to take tea with him at midday at the Parsonage. Excited, Catherine drained the rest of the milk and climbed from her bed, leaving the glass on her bedside table along with the empty plate (they were always whisked away without her noticing), she then positively skipped down the hall to her bathroom in order to wash and prepare herself for the day ahead.

An hour later, and dressed in a white linen Summer dress with Broderie Anglaise needlework, her hair hanging in heavy tumbling curls down her back, Catherine descended the great stairs and headed for the dining room. As it turned out, Benjamin was nowhere to be seen and the breakfast table had not even been laid out yet, so she decided instead to go directly to the kitchen itself.

Opening the door, she was briefly blinded by the early morning sunlight which shone in through the kitchen’s many windows, the line on the left faced out onto the stable yard with its dovecot and stone well, while the windows on the right side of the room looked out onto the immaculate walled kitchen garden. The kitchen itself was large and welcoming with a flagstone floor and oak beams lining the ceiling, from which hung bunches of onions and herbs. At the far end, taking up nearly the entire wall was a wide open fireplace with a spit for roasting, nearby stood a more modern conventional oven for baking pies and cooking stews and soups. At the centre of the room there was an enormous oak table, scored and marked with age, and yet still serviceable, it had been in the kitchen since the Manor was built six hundred years ago. Upon it were the ingredients for a batch of pastry which someone had begun to make but had abandoned halfway though, Catherine glanced around for said person but the only sign of life she could see took the form of a large black cat, curled up asleep upon a window seat.

“Good morning, Zachariah, Where is Marmaduke Scarlet?” Catherine said, going up to tickle the cat behind his ears. A loud booming purr immediately erupted in the cat’s chest and he lifted his head, inviting her to scratch his chin, his emerald green eyes closed in ecstasy.

“Ah! Good morning, Lady Catherine! To what do I owe the pleasure?” a jolly voice rang from behind her.

She turned to find Marmaduke Scarlet himself, entering from the door out to the kitchen garden, a basket on his arm laden with a selection of vegetables freshly dug from the earth. The little man with his bright red cap had been cook for the Merryweathers for countless years, indeed, Catherine remembered him from before she was sent away to school - a fact, like Digweed, he’d been overjoyed to hear that day several weeks ago when she’d followed the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread and had stumbled into the kitchen. 

“I’m afraid you’re up a tad earlier than usual so I’ve not had time to set the breakfast table yet.” he continued, placing the basket on the table and then climbing up onto a stool to continue preparing the pastry, “Did you see the letter that was delivered for you today? I left it at your bedside.”

“Yes, thank you, I did. It’s actually the reason I’m here, I have a favour to ask you.”

“Oh, do you now? Well, ask away, Little Miss! There’s no task too big or too difficult for Old Marmaduke!”

Catherine took a moment to smile affectionately at the fact he had slipped so easily back into using the old nickname she had been known by all those years ago (just as easily as he’d slipped back into the habit of leaving milk and biscuits at her bedside). ‘Little Miss’. Back before she left for school, when the Manor was abuzz with servants, they had all known her as Little Miss. _“No more chocolate for you, Little Miss! You’ll spoil your dinner.” “Woah! Slow down, Little Miss! Watch you don’t trip and fall!” “It’s past your bedtime, Little Miss. Away to bed with you.”_ They were all gone now, only Digweed and Marmaduke Scarlet remained.

Catherine lamented the fact that she’d never gotten to say a proper goodbye to anyone, that they weren’t here to see how much Little Miss had grown up. But most of all it pained her how she’d took them for granted while she had them - oh, she’d adored them all, make no mistake! But she’d always just childishly assumed that they’d remain in her life forever. She could still remember all of their faces and names; her old nursemaid who had told her stories and kissed her on the forehead as she’d put her to bed each night; the kind-hearted maids who’d took great delight in dressing her and fixing her hair, telling her all the time how pretty she was and what a fine lady she’d grow up to be; there was young ruddy-cheeked Alec the stable hand who had taught her to ride a horse; Old Man Mellors, who had lived and worked in the gatehouse and always used to give her a peppermint sweet from the stash he kept in his pocket whenever he saw her; Mrs. Fraser, the portly lady who would come every Monday to do the laundry; the fun-loving footmen who would sometimes chase her about the house and gardens on days when her parents weren’t home - she’d been quite taken with the youngest of them, a tall dashing blonde lad named Erwin, despite him at the time probably being about twenty-three, and one day she had announced to him with complete sincerity that when she grew up she was going to marry him so he’d better not fall in love with anyone else (Erwin had thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and, after laughing heartily for a solid minute, had ruffled her hair and responded with a tender and tactful “We’ll see, Little Miss!”). There were many more but Catherine knew that if she dwelled too long reminiscing then she’d feel sad for the rest of the day, so she put them from her mind for now and concentrated on the task at hand.

“The letter was from Old Parson, he has invited me to tea at midday.” she explained, “I was wondering if you had here anything to spare for me to take along as a gift so as to thank him for his hospitality?”

“Well, I do have some very fine jams and honey in the larder, perhaps you’d like to take along a couple of jars? Also, if my memory serves me correctly, I do recall that the Parson always had a love for the fruit grown on our own grounds whenever he took tea here, perhaps a small selection of that would serve too?”

“That sounds absolutely splendid!” Catherine smiled, “But you make it sound as if the Parson came here for tea often, why hasn’t Benjamin invited him since I’ve returned?”

Marmaduke Scarlet abruptly turned away to stare back down at the finished pastry on the table before him, kneading it again with renewed vigour, “If it pleases you, Little Miss, I’ll make you some breakfast and after you’ve eaten you can take my basket and go out into the garden and the orchard to pick the fruit. Or if you prefer I can pick it for you while you eat?”

Catherine got the distinct impression that her previous question had troubled him, so she decided not to press the topic, “Thank you, Marmaduke, I’d like to pick the fruit myself.”

The little man smiled and hopped down off his stool, pulled another up to the table and ushered her to sit down upon it, after which he flitted quickly about the room, picking up ingredients here and there. Catherine watched him dotingly, she hadn’t even told him what she wanted for breakfast but she knew from experience that there was no need: Marmaduke Scarlet always had the canny ability to know exactly what food would satisfy a person the most, even if they didn’t know it themselves.

Before long a steaming plate of Eggs Atlantic was placed before her; two halves of a freshly baked English muffin topped with slices of smoked salmon, two perfectly poached eggs and a drizzle of thick creamy hollandaise sauce. With a final flourish he grinded on a little pepper from a mill almost as tall as he was and then sprinkled on a pinch of chopped chives. Catherine, whose stomach was now growling in a most undignified manner, descended on the food with an enthusiasm and hunger to rival even the hardiest of men. While she ate Marmaduke Scarlet busied himself emptying his basket of the vegetables he’d earlier picked.

When her plate was clear she accepted the basket and walked out through the door to the kitchen garden with the instruction to pick whatever took her fancy. And so Catherine strolled around the neat little garden, admiring the vast array of fresh fruit and vegetable plants which always seemed to yield a successful and impressive harvest (she chalked it up to Marmaduke Scarlet having a magic green thumb as well as a wonderful intuition when it came to food). Silver droplets of dew still lingered on the plants like miniscule crystals, the Sun having not quite gotten high enough in the sky yet to melt it all away. After picking three good handfuls of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, she let herself through the gate in the garden wall into the orchard where she collected a respectable haul of apples, countless cherries (she couldn’t resist sampling some of the plumper ones she picked and thus ended up working twice as long), and even a couple of pears which had ripened early.

All the while she worked, her mind kept drifting to think of Robin de Noir. Repeatedly she scolded herself and tried to think of something else but only a short while later he would once again intrude on her thoughts. Everything about him enraged Catherine and the more she thought about him, the more irritated with herself she became for thinking such thoughts; from his cocky smile to his arrogant devil-may-care attitude, his laughing brown eyes to the fact that he appeared to take great delight in deliberately provoking her, Catherine despised every part of him with a fiery hate. In truth though, at the moment she was most annoyed with herself for being foolish enough to fall for his trick of kissing him and actually expecting him to be true to his word and return her scarf. She had behaved like a silly naïve girl who was liable to get herself in a whole lot of trouble by trusting the wrong sort of people. Well, she told herself, she couldn’t entirely blame herself, after all, she was used to associating with well-bred gentlemen who never took such liberties and always kept their word. Clearly Robin de Noir was no such gentleman.

Returning to the kitchen she noticed for the first time row upon row of potted salmon-pink geraniums standing outside on the ground in front of the long kitchen windows. Once inside she found that Digweed had materialised - he wished her a good morning - and was engaged in carrying plates of food out of the kitchen, Catherine surmised Benjamin was up and about and soon would be descending for his breakfast.

“Why, Marmaduke, what a beautiful show of pink geraniums you have out there! I’ve never seen them planted in the gardens.” she exclaimed.

Once again the cook did not look at her, instead staring fixedly down at the teapot into which he was spooning tealeaves, “Yes, they brighten up the place, I find.” he murmured neutrally.

Normally Catherine would probably not have noticed anything amiss with his response but given that the same thing had happened earlier, well, it was hard to ignore when someone was clearly not giving you a straight answer. She was just about to raise the subject and demand an explanation when she realised that Digweed was standing staring at her with an expression which could only be described as pure horror.

“Digweed? Whatever is the matter?” she asked, feeling a little anxious.

The man blinked and then rapidly shook his head, “Nothing, my lady, nothing at all. I’d best be getting this food out to Sir Benjamin.” And with that he quickly hurried through the kitchen door.

Marmaduke Scarlet was suddenly at her side, gently prising the basket from her hands and prattling away, “May, what a lovely haul you’ve got here, Little Miss! A lovely haul indeed! You certainly know how to pick them! A proper discerning eye you have there, I shall have to get you to help me when more starts ripening and coming into season. Would you like that? Now, let’s see, you’ve got strawberries and blueberries and raspberries from the garden and plenty from the orchard. I’ll bet you’ve been helping yourself to some of these cherries if the red stains on your lips are anything to go by! You were just the same as a little girl, the gardeners were forever catching you swiping fruit from the orchard and spoiling your dinner. You had a sweet tooth even back then. Now, the fruit trees in the garden aren’t in season yet, but I do have some left over jams from last year, let me fetch them from the larder…”

The little man deposited the basket on the table and disappeared into the larder leaving Catherine bemusedly staring after him. Oh yes, they were _definitely_ keeping something from her and she’d already resolved to find out what. Since asking directly was evidently out of the question, she’d have to go about it cunningly, through snooping and clever loaded questions in the hope that someone might trip up and say something they shouldn’t.

Marmaduke Scarlet reappeared carrying three jars; a jar of plum jam, a jar of apricot jam and a jar of honey. The honey, he explained as he nestled the jars safely in the basket amongst the fruit, was harvested at a farm just outside Silverydew by a man named Lawson Riddington and owed its incredible sweetness to the great variety of beautiful flowers throughout the Valley.

Her basket packed, Catherine thanked the cook for all of his help and hung it over her arm. He in turn bade her a good day and told her to be home in time for dinner because he was making a roast joint of lamb with mint gravy. Assuring him that she wouldn’t miss it for the world, she left the kitchen and went along to the dining room to wish Benjamin a good morning. He was sitting at the table leafing through a newspaper while Digweed stood at his side transferring rashers of bacon onto his plate.

“So you’ve finally surfaced.” he said by way of greeting, glancing up at her sternly.

Catherine felt a prickle of annoyance at the implication that she was late for breakfast because she had slept in, “ _Actually,_ I’ve been up for hours. I took my breakfast in the kitchen with Marmaduke Scarlet and then I went picking some fruit in the gardens. So it is you, dear brother, who has _surfaced_ late.”

Benjamin fixed her with a look of such disbelief at her account of her productive morning that Catherine felt herself becoming even more cross, “Up at the crack of dawn picking fruit? Thinking of taking up jam making? Or just opening a market stall, sister?”

Catherine couldn’t help but laugh at this, all of her irritation melted away and was instead replaced with a warm and comforting fondness for her older brother. Yes, this is what she’d been missing, the verbal riposte and playful teasing they’d engaged in when they’d been young. For weeks Benjamin had been so cold and distant, but now it finally seemed that the ice was beginning to melt and he was slowly returning to being the compassionate and witty boy that he used to be. Overwhelmed by emotion, she couldn’t resist putting down the basket and striding over to where he sat to fling her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek.

Untangling herself and stepping back, she realised that he’d gone a little pink behind the ears and that he was looking down somewhat embarrassedly at his newspaper. Back when they were children they’d never been uncomfortable with being close, in their play nor in showing affection, but Catherine knew that it would take time for them to return to the way they were, so for now she would be content with the fact that he hadn’t shied away or stiffened at her touch this time.

Benjamin  cleared his throat and nodded at the basket on the floor, “The fruits of your labour, I presume?”

Catherine smiled at his silly pun (yes, things were going to be alright, she was sure of it), “Old Parson has invited me to tea. I’m taking some fruits and jams for him. Actually, what time is it, please?”

Her brother’s pocket watch proclaimed it to be a little after half past ten.

“I think I’ll start walking over to Silverydew now. It usually takes half an hour if you walk quickly but if I go at a leisurely pace then I’ll surely arrive just in time.”

Benjamin frowned and shook his head, “Catherine, I really must insist that you wait a while and allow Digweed to take you in the carriage. After what happened last time you walked from the village alone, you shouldn’t take the risk again. The De Noirs will probably be waiting for the first opportunity they can get to try to assault you again.”

“I shan’t let those beasts control my life, Benjamin. If I stop walking to Silverydew then before you know it I’ll hardly be leaving the house at all. If that happens then the De Noirs will get exactly what they want: to have this Valley all to themselves. Well, it isn’t their Valley, it’s _ours_.”

“For God’s sake, Catherine, are you serious? You’d rather put your own life at risk just to make a stupid point? You are my younger sister and I, as your guardian, am responsible for your care, for once in your life do as I say!”

Oh, now Catherine was _really_ annoyed. How dare he talk down to her! But instead of losing her temper and shouting at him, she simply turned away, “Digweed,” she spoke calmly to the man who had been hovering uncomfortably near the breakfast table, “I am walking to Silverydew this morning and I shall be walking back also. I will not have need of the carriage. Should my brother order you to follow me then you are to ignore him. Remember, I gave my orders first. Is that understood?”

After a moment’s hesitation, his eyes flicking from Catherine to her brother and back again, Digweed spoke in a small and awkward voice, “Very good, my lady.”

Her brother gazed at her with a somewhat mystified expression for a moment, “You sound just like Mother.” he said, and Catherine felt a sudden surge of pride. Then his expression hardened, “Stubborn. Pig-headed. You never could tell her what was good for her either once she had an idea set in her mind.”

Catherine felt her face grow hot, “I do not intend on shutting myself away in this house like you do, Benjamin.” she grated out spitefully. With that she picked up her basket from the floor and walked out the room. Benjamin did not call after her.

When Catherine left the house she’d been absolutely furious, but it is very difficult to maintain a foul mood when one is taking a leisurely stroll down a beautiful country lane and basking in late morning sunshine. After a short while her anger began to abate and she began thinking clearly, at which point she decided that she would try to forget about what had just happened in the dining room, having no intention of letting a silly row spoil such a lovely day. If she was still feeling upset by the time she got to Silverydew then she would talk about it with Old Parson who was always good at solving problems and listening to others’ troubles.

To pass the time as she walked she began thinking of the details of the mystery which had presented itself to her this morning. Just what was it that Digweed and Marmaduke Scarlet were so reluctant to talk about? First the cook had changed the subject when she’d questioned whether Old Parson had visited the Manor for tea often while she was away at school, and then he and Digweed had gotten jumpy over pink geraniums of all things! She was certain that there was more to this than meets the eye, and so she cast her mind back over the past few weeks, trying to remember if anything else odd had occurred which had not stuck out to her at the time. Well, there was Benjamin’s excessive drinking for one, and how when she’d confronted him about it he’d gotten ever so angry and then later by the lily pond had given her that whole speech about questions he couldn’t answer and things which must remain private. Then it occurred to her that she vaguely recalled Phillip Hadaway mentioning something unusual about Benjamin that day nigh on two months ago when he had escorted her back to the Valley from school. What on Earth was it that he’d said exactly? If only she could remember. For all she knew it could be a terribly important piece of information. Perhaps if she-

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, _NO!_ Catherine was now fully convinced that she was indeed the unluckiest girl who ever lived. For there up ahead, behind a bend in the lane stood Robin de Noir.

He stood in the middle of the road, his arms folded and his feet planted firmly apart, blocking her path. Even as she hung back, feeling a strange mixture of fury due to seeing him again and apprehension lest this was another kidnapping plot and Benjamin would be proven right, she bristled at the arrogance of his posture.

“Back to cause more trouble?” she called to him.

“I assure you, I am on my best behaviour today.” he responded.

“Ha! No doubt that is just another lie! Why must you persist in bothering me? I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not even anywhere near _your_ forest.”

“Who said you were doing anything wrong?” he asked sharply.

“Or is this another habit of yours?” she continued, “Playing the highway man and stealing from any innocent person who happens to cross your path.”

“I’d hardly call your family innocent.” he snorted contemptuously.

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“About a feud that goes back as long as anyone can remember.”

Catherine laughed derisively, “You’re saying you actually believe that story about the Pearls? My God, you are even stupider than you look!”

“And you don’t? Wake up, silly girl! Why do you think our families have hated each other for the last few hundred years?”

“Probably because all of yours are fools like you.” Catherine responded with sarcastic false sweetness.

“And all of yours are pig-headed like you!” he laughed.

And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the fact that he had used the same insult as Benjamin had used earlier. All of Catherine’s rage came back with a vengeance, twice as fierce and twice as hot. There was no controlling herself now, “You, are the most irritating, insufferable boy I have _ever_ had the displeasure of meeting!” she yelled.

And with that off her chest, she turned and ran away quickly up the road before he had a chance to reply. The couple of times she glanced back she was delighted to see that he did not appear to be following her but, nevertheless, she had to be sure. On her right-hand side the grass at the side of the road dropped away into a slight slope down to the field below, it wasn’t steep, merely the slightest of inclines, and in that field mere feet away there happened to be three trees standing close together with a couple of tall, leafy bushes growing at their bases. If she could hide unseen behind them and still keep an eye on the road then she would see if he did decide to follow her after all and, once he had gone in the opposite direction, she could climb back up onto the road and continue walking to Silverydew.

Thinking it a very fine and clever idea indeed, Catherine hurried to take up position, standing amongst the trees, peeping up over the bushes at the road stretching left and right in front of her.

“Just like a typical female!” a voice from behind crowed, startling her, “Always wanting to have the last word!”

Catherine turned around to find him lazily leaning against a tree behind her, “How on Earth…?” she trailed off, astonished.

“You forget, kitten, I was born here and I’ve spent my entire life running about this countryside. I know all the quickest ways and the hidden places.” he said smugly.

“Just stay away from me!” Catherine huffed, walking back up to the road, “You have stolen from me and held me hostage, what could possibly make you think that I will just allow you to foist your company upon me?”

And of course he followed, “Ah, but I did set you free in the end. Surely that deed cancels out the thievery and the kidnapping?”

“Even if it did, it certainly wouldn't change the fact that you lied to me about returning my scarf _and_ took and inexcusable liberty against my honour.” she replied tartly.

Robin smirked at this, “Then I offer you my apologies, Miss Merryweather, for all the indignities I have done unto you.” he said with mocking formality, taking off his hat and bowing with a flourish, “However, I cannot apologise for the _inexcusable liberty_ for I confess I rather enjoyed it, finding the enduring tingle awfully pleasant.” at this he ran his fingers over his lips, “And I am certain that the pleasure was mutual.”

“How dare you say such a thing, you vulgar boy! Well, I do hope you are proud of yourself, you _earned_ your kiss through trickery and deceit.”

“Exceedingly proud, yes!” and there he was grinning smugly again, “Though, does it occur to you that perhaps I only succeeded because you wanted it in the first place?”

Catherine snorted, “You must be mad.” she muttered.

“Whatever you say, kitten.”

“Do not call me that.”

"What have you in here, _princess_?” he said, plucking at the cloth which covered the basket she carried.

Catherine held it out of his reach, “Jams and fruit for Old Parson, I am supposed to visit him for tea, not that it’s any of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way or else I shall be extremely late.”

She belatedly realised that they had merely been standing on the road arguing for quite some time and quickly took of walking in the direction of Silverydew.

“Walking to Silverydew? Wonderful! I shall escort you.” Robin declared, leaping forward to take her arm, link it through his and steer her down the road.

“Release me at once!” Catherine ordered, seething, trying to pull herself free of his grip but he merely smiled blithely and stroked her arm as if trying to soothe her temper.

“Now, now, niceties must be observed, after all, I've just apologised so gallantly for all my wrongdoings.”

“Not all.” she muttered.

“Here I am acting like a proper gent, no doubt just as well as all the fancy boys you probably met in London. Told you I was on my best behaviour today, didn’t I?”

Catherine rolled her eyes and resumed her attempts at trying to tug her arm free.

“Tell me, Miss Merryweather, how is it that you came to know the legend of the pearls?” he said light-heartedly, as though they were but a pair of sweethearts walking in a park one Sunday, making pleasant conversation. Catherine stared at him disbelievingly, surely this situation couldn't get any more surreal?

“My old nurse used to tell it to me as a bedtime story when I was a little girl.” she responded.

“A bedtime story? How quaint. My father preferred to tell it whenever he wished to inspire hate in my heart for all your family.”

“And I suppose this is the way you express your hatred towards me? By tormenting the living daylights out of me?” Catherine laughed sarcastically. Robin merely smiled and patted her hand.

She decided to play along with his stupid little game, “Tell me, Mister de Noir - truthfully for once, if you please - why _did_ you set me free that night?”

“I don’t think tigers should be kept in cages.” he said with a wink.

Catherine gave a noncommittal grunt, sounding uncannily like her brother. The pair walked in silence for a while, she having finally resigned herself to the fact she probably wasn’t going to be able to pull her arm from his grip.

“I suppose I should thank you for finding and returning my cameo brooch to me." she blurted.

“If you wish.”

“Yes, well…thank you for taking the time to find it. It was most…thoughtful of you.”

“You're welcome.” he said. Catherine noticed that he said this a little petulantly, that he had probably expected something more for his efforts. She could well imagine what he would demand for his reward.

They reached the top of the hill overlooking the village. The village of Silverydew sat nestled between two hills: the one which they now stood upon with the road leading to the Manor and the sea, and a hill sprinkled with flowers and topped with ruins of some sort. The pristine whitewashed houses of the village shone in the sunlight and looked for all the world like a child’s toy model, the gardens were neat and the trees in all their blossoming glory.

“I shall leave you here.” Robin said, releasing her arm and tipping his hat to her.

“Thank you.” she muttered grudgingly then started on her way down the hill to the village.

“Miss Merryweather! One last moment of your time, if you please?” he called suddenly after her. Catherine grimaced, he was _still_ keeping up the charade of being a respectable gentleman?

“What?” she snapped, swinging around to face him and finding that he had already ran down the hill after her.

Her outburst didn't startle him, he merely blinked once calmly, “It has occurred to me that you may be confused about my intentions and I wish to explain.” he explained.

“Yes, thank you.” she admitted with a slight sigh of relief. Finally the puzzle of why he was so fixated with her was about to be solved.

Abruptly, he snatched up her free hand, raised it to his lips, placed a soft, quivering kiss upon the back and whispered huskily over it, “I think, I should very much like to court you.”


	17. Chapter Sixteen

“You are uncharacteristically quiet, my lady. Is there something troubling you?” Old Parson said as he poured the tea.

He was right, Catherine felt that she was floating in a kind of dazed dream. After Robin had uttered those ten terrifying, exhilarating words, she had tugged her hand easily out of his grasp and walked quickly away without a word, stopping next to an oak tree growing outside someone's garden to look back only once; he was still standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching her. She had turned her back on him and continued walking to the Parsonage.

“Not at all.” Catherine smiled, trying to feign nonchalance.

Old Parson raised an eyebrow and fixed her with an expression which plainly said that he was not convinced.

Catherine sighed, she knew that she couldn’t lie to a man of the Church, but she desperately wished to keep the situation with Robin de Noir a secret. Besides, how would she ever broach such a subject? _“Well, you see, Parson, Robin de Noir - you know him, he’s the only son and heir of the clan which is my family’s sworn enemy - appears to have romantic intentions towards me and has just this morning admitted that he wishes to court me. And yes, I did kiss him of my own volition but in truth I was essentially tricked into it and I really don’t think I can be blamed. So, how do you advise I proceed? Also, do you think my brother will kill me immediately or will he wait until after he has killed Robin de Noir?”_ Oh yes, that would work _wonderfully_.

Instead, she opted to merely tell a white lie, “I argued with my brother this morning.”

“Ah. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Yes, please. You see, it’s…I…” Catherine stammered for a moment before groaning and buying her face in her hands, “Everything’s all wrong. And it’s so hard to put into words.” she sighed, her voice somewhat muffled.

“Take your time. I am not here to judge, merely to offer advice.” the Parson said kindly, reaching across the table to pat her arm.

After taking a moment to collect herself, she lowered her hands and began to talk, “Ever since I arrived I have been trying so hard to talk to Benjamin, to be close with him once again. As children we were completely inseparable, he was my favourite brother and - I know I probably shouldn’t say this - I loved him most of all. But now? It’s like he’s a completely different person. And every time I feel that I am gaining ground, that we are becoming close again, he pushes me away! He doesn’t let me in, I barely know anything about him now. But on the other hand, he orders me around and tries to control everything I do. That’s what we were arguing about, I wanted to walk here today but he was insisting that I take the carriage. I don’t see why he should be allowed any say in my life when he does not allow me any say in his.”

After confessing all of that, Catherine rather felt that she needed to catch her breath, but ultimately it did feel better to have gotten her feelings off her chest.

“I see. You mentioned that you feel like your brother is a different person? That’s because he _is_ a different person. It is only natural that we change as time passes. Can you honestly say that you are the same girl now as you were when you first returned to us, my lady?”

“I suppose not.”

“And barely a month has passed! So imagine the changes ten years can do, and of course, if those years are spent apart then those changes appear all the more obvious and startling. As for feeling like Sir Benjamin is pushing you away and refusing to talk with you, I sympathise with you, my lady, I truly do. You have only recently lost your dear mother and have returned to a place which probably feels somewhat unfamiliar to you, so it is only natural that you wish for the support and kindness of your brother. And he should be there to give it to you, I do not deny that. But I will say that it would be worth considering that the years spent apart were not entirely free from loneliness and pain for your brother either. So perhaps bear in mind that there is a reason why he is reluctant to talk openly with you and maybe his over protectiveness is his way of compensating for that. You are, after all, his only sister, and as your older brother he is duty bound to act as your guardian in place of your parents. Worry not though, I rather suspect that your brother feels a great deal of relief and gladness that you have been returned to him after so many years, he just has to figure out exactly how to show it.” Old Parson finished with a conspiratorial wink.

While the old man’s revelation that Benjamin truly did love and care for her brought her comfort, Catherine was quick to jump on a particular point he had made, “You mentioned that perhaps something ill had happened to my brother while I was at school. I confess, recently I have begun to suspect that myself. Please, sir, I would greatly appreciate anything you could tell me. It may help me to relate to my brother more if I understand what it is he is going through.”

Old Parson put his teacup down upon its saucer with a sharp _clink_ of crockery, “I will say no more on the matter.” he declared sternly, “And you will ask this of no one else. This is your brother’s private business and he will tell you himself when he is ready. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Catherine murmured, lowering her head to hide the embarrassed blush which painted her cheeks.

“Forgive me for scolding you, my lady. I understand that you only ask these questions out of love and concern for your brother.” the Parson said gently, “But please heed my advice: by asking questions and trying to discover the information for yourself, you will only bring a world of trouble down upon yourself. Better to let nature take its course and respect Sir Merryweather’s right to tell you in his own time.”

“I understand, sir. And I promise you I shan’t ask anyone anymore questions.”

“A wise decision, my lady. Now, if you’ll forgive me for asking, have you any plans for this afternoon?”

“I have none, though I must be back at the Manor in time for dinner for Marmaduke Scarlet informs me he is cooking a very fine roast lamb with mint gravy!”

“That sounds delicious indeed!” the Parson chuckled, “Then allow me to invite you to spend the rest of the afternoon at the church with myself and the children of the village.”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.” Catherine smiled.

“Splendid! I can’t even begin to prepare you for how delighted the children will be, ever since your return to the Valley they have been abuzz with questions about you. They’re all very eager to make your acquaintance.”

“And I am eager to make theirs!” Catherine responded, drinking the last of her tea.

“In that case, shall we make our way across to the church?” Old Parson said, rising from the table and offering Catherine his arm.

The Church of Mary the Virgin was truly the jewel in the crown that was the village of Silverydew. Several centuries old and made of pale grey stone, it stood tall and proud in the centre of the village, surrounded on all sides by apple trees currently in bloom, their frothy pink and white blossoms creating an almost ethereal halo around the building. As they walked the short distance from the Parsonage, across the churchyard with its lush green grass and verdant flowers, the Parson explained that the men and women of Silverydew are hardworking folk and so he always keeps the church open for the children to play in so as to keep them from underfoot. He also confessed that by some outside of the Valley he was considered as something of an oddity for such a bold move, but that he did not care what his detractors thought; little children are loved above all in the eyes of God, and as such the church belongs foremost to them.

When Old Parson opened the great church doors, Catherine was not expecting the great roar of approval which greeted her, nor was she expecting quite so many small bodies to come flocking around her, offering welcomes and grasping at her hands.

“As I said, the children have very much been looking forward to meeting you!” the Parson said, scarcely containing his grin, “Now, now, children! Let’s not crowd the Lady Catherine! Have you forgotten what we rehearsed?”

Obediently, the excitable little children surrounding her dispersed, forming a neat group with the older children who had been hanging back, then all as one they proclaimed proudly, “We, the children of Silverydew, welcome Lady Catherine Merryweather!” then dipped into bows and curtsies.

Catherine clapped delightedly, “Thank you all so much! I am very happy to be here, and I can’t wait to make friends with you all!”

The children responded with an approving cheer and once again descended upon her, ushering her deeper within the church. A tour was quickly organised, and Catherine found herself led around the church, a child holding each of her hands, while the children proudly showed her the alter and the pulpit, each of the colourful stained glass windows depicting scenes or important figures from the Bible, the statue of the Lady and her Baby, the old bell salvaged from the ruined monastery atop Paradise Hill, counted with her the soaring pillars as thick as tree trunks, pointed out the stairs leading up to the belfry where the bell ringers did their work and the entrance to the chantry where rested the “Sleeping Knight” as they called him.

When finally the initial excitement of her arrival and the ensuing tour died down, Catherine was finally permitted to sit down and get to know the children properly while she played with them.

“Your hair is so pretty!” a young girl of about ten years old said, gesturing to Catherine’s thick dark curls, “I wish that mine was curly like yours. Sometimes my Mama makes it curly for me, by tying it up with pieces of fabric. But it isn’t very comfortable to sleep in, the knots dig in my head!” A couple of other girls nodded in agreement, their own mothers sometimes knotted their hair that way.

“Yes, I imagine that isn’t very comfortable!” Catherine smiled, “But you have very pretty hair of your own, so long and blonde! You know, I had a friend at school named Annabella Millais and she had hair exactly like yours. Sometimes she used to plait it all around her head and it looked like a golden crown. I was always so envious whenever she wore her hair that way!”

“That sounds so pretty! Could you do my hair like that? Please, Lady Catherine?” the girl begged.

“Of course! Come here and sit down in front of me.” The little girl knelt down with her back to where Catherine sat on a pew, and Catherine began methodically separating her hair into sections and plaiting it around her head, while a group of other girls watched closely on.

“What’s your name, lovely?” Catherine asked as she worked.

“I’m Cora Riddington, my lady.” the girl at her feet responded.

“Riddington? Is your father the man named Lawson who keeps bees on his farm?”

“Yes, that’s my Papa!” Cora said excitedly, “He learned to keep bees from his Papa and Grandfather. Now he’s teaching my brothers and he’ll teach me too when I’m a little older.”

“I had some honey from your father’s bees this morning, I brought a jar for Old Parson and we had it dribbled over bread. You can tell your father from me that it was the finest honey I’ve ever tasted.”

“He’ll be so pleased to hear that, my lady! And he’d want me to tell you that you’re welcome to visit our farm to see our hives any time that you’re passing.”

“Thank you, Cora, I’ll do that. There! I’m all finished!”

Cora’s new hairstyle was met with murmurs of admiration and two more girls requested that Catherine style their hair the same way. And so she found herself chatting first with Rebecca Chaucer, whose mother was the village dressmaker and seamstress while her father worked during the week in London as an accountant, and then to Violet Albany whose father was Silverydew’s blacksmith.

“You know, if you want to wear your hair like this for special occasions, you could weave ribbons amongst it or place tiny little flowers between the plaits!” Catherine explained.

“That sounds so pretty! The next special occasion is the Midsummer festival, maybe we should all wear our hair like this with ribbons and flowers!” Violet suggested. The surrounding girls agreed enthusiastically, by now most of them had grasped how to execute the hairstyle and were kneeling down practicing on one another.

“Will you come to the Midsummer festival this year, Lady Catherine?” Rebecca asked, she stood close next to Catherine’s shoulder, watching intensely as she finished plating Violet’s hair, “It’s so much fun! Every year a big fair is set up in the town of Bartleby – the biggest fair you’ve ever seen! Practically everyone in the county attends! And then everyone in Silverydew returns home and we all have a big party with lots of food and drink. And there’s also music and dancing and games! It goes on long into the night, that’s why we all like it, because it means we can stay up late!”

“Well when you make it sound so fun how can I not attend!” said Catherine, “My birthday usually falls the same week as Midsummer – occasionally on the same day!”

Once she had completed the girls’ hair, Catherine was press ganged by a group of impatient little boys into helping them gather flowers in the churchyard for the tomb of the Sleeping Knight. Their names were Nicholas Tudor, Leon Norton (grandson of the innkeeper Roger Norton), twin boys Julian and Edmund Prewitt, and Joseph Albany (younger brother of Violet), and while they ran with Catherine about the churchyard, picking only the finest blooms, they taught her a delightful song named the “Bell Song” which they told her all the children loved to sing.

After having gathered a good armful of wildflowers, their colours riotous, the boys led Catherine back into the church, stopping briefly to lay a posy for the Lady in the niche which contained her statue, and then onwards into the chantry where the Sleeping Knight lay. Upon entering the candlelit stone chamber with its low ceiling, Catherine was surprised to discover that there was already someone within.

Standing over the tomb, carefully cleaning the life-size effigy of the knight with a scrubbing-brush, was Evie Fletcher, whom she had spoken with several days before in Mr. Hadaway’s offices.

“Oh! Lady Catherine!” the young woman gasped, quite taken by surprise. She dropped the scrubbing brush into the bucket of soapy water which stood at her feet and straightened up, brushing away some imaginary dirt from the front of her skirt which curved over her swelling pregnant belly.

“Mrs. Fletcher, good afternoon! I’m so pleased to meet you again!” Catherine greeted her warmly.

“Oh, please, my lady, Evie is fine.”

“Very well, but only if you promise to call me Catherine in return.”

For a moment Evie Fletcher merely gaped in undisguised astonishment, but then she blushed prettily and shyly returned Catherine’s conspiratorial smile.

“We’ve brought flowers to decorate the Knight’s tomb!” Leon Norton declared, brandishing a handful of cornflowers.

“Oh, they are pretty! You certainly have gathered some fine blooms! Well, have at it, lads, I’m all finished scrubbing!” Evie said kindly, gesturing the boys toward the tomb.

Catherine helped them for a while, arranging the flowers in attractive little bouquets around the reclining form of the Knight, then she left the boys to it and went to join Evie, who had lowered herself to sit upon a stone ledge which ran the perimeter of the room.

“I come here almost every day to clean Sir Wrolf’s tomb.”

“Sir Wrolf...Merryweather?”

“Sir Wrolf Merryweather, your ancestor.” Evie confirmed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“Then I thank you for your upkeep of my ancestor’s resting place.” Catherine said sincerely.

The boys, having suitably arranged the flowers to their liking, informed the two young women that they were going back out to pick more and promptly sped from the chantry.

“Being here alone, in the candlelight and the quiet...” Evie began hesitantly.

“Yes?” Catherine prompted.

“It’s a relief of sorts.” Evie blurted, her voice thickening with tears, “To not have people looking at me with pity in their eyes. To hear them whispering about me, _“There goes poor Evie Fletcher, she’ll have her babies soon and they’ll have to grow up without a father. However shall she manage?”_ ”

“I’m sure it’s very difficult for you.” Catherine said gently, reaching across to clasp Evie’s hands in hers.

“And I know they all think me a fool for still having hope that my Freddie is alive and will come back to us. Do _you_ think me foolish?”

“Hope is never foolish.”

“Oh, my lady!” Evie gasped, breaking down into full body-wracking sobs.

Catherine slid closer and pulled the weeping girl to her, wrapping her in her arms and murmuring soothingly to her.

“You’re not foolish for thinking he’s still alive. I believe you. I believe that you’d know for certain, your heart would tell you.”

Evie’s sobs gradually abated to the occasional sniffle and finally she lifted her face, her cheeks wet with tears, “Thank you, my lady.” she whispered gratefully.

“Ah, none of that “my lady” nonsense! It’s Catherine, remember?”

That got a laugh from the other girl and Catherine felt some relief, she really did have a lovely smile, it was such a shame that she had little occasion to do so these days. Offering her handkerchief, which Evie gratefully accepted, Catherine swore to herself that she would become fast friends with this lovely young woman, and do everything in her power to make her smile often again.

Once Evie had composed herself and dried her tears, Catherine encouraged her to come out and join her and the children in the church proper, where the children were only too eager to agree with Catherine’s suggestion that they sing the Bell Song which they were so fond of. In fact, they sang it twice, with Catherine and Evie joining in the second time.

_“High in the tall church tower,_

_Signed with the mystic sign,_

_Theirs since the days of the chrism,_

_The oil and salt and wine,_

_The great bells wait in silence_

_Through the long death of night,_

_For resurrection triumph_

_And resurrection light._

_When the dawn comes out of darkness,_

_Victory out of pain._

_Then music shakes the belfry,_

_And spring is born again...”_

Afterwards it was time for Catherine to leave if she was to return to Moonacre in time for dinner as she had promised Marmaduke Scarlet. The children protested initially, but after bestowing each and every one with a kiss and a promise to all that she would return someday soon, they finally allowed her to depart.

As she walked back to Moonacre through the country lanes Catherine felt as though she was overflowing with happiness. That is, until once again she spotted Robin de Noir waiting for her up ahead on the road, then the feeling was replaced, not with her usual anger upon encountering him, but with uncertainty.

He kept his distance and remained quiet, lingering beneath a tree and waiting for her to approach him. If Catherine didn’t know any better, she’d have said that he was a little unsure himself, certainly his usual swagger and arrogance were gone.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” he said finally when she was within speaking distance.

Although Catherine didn’t respond...she believed him. She couldn’t begin to fathom why, but she did.

“And I’m not going to trick you either.” he continued, seemingly realising that she was prepared to at least listen for the moment, “You have every reason not to trust me, I understand that. I’m certainly not denying it. But I promise, you’re safe with me.”

He began to walk alongside her and for once, Catherine did not object.

They walked in somewhat awkward silence for a while until he spoke again, “Have you...Have you given any thought to what I said this morning?” he asked hesitantly.

“How could I not? It was very sudden and perplexing.”

“Completely out of the blue.” he agreed.

Catherine tried to hide her smile, but Robin noticed and this made him smile. Which he then tried to hide also.

“Look here, you must realise how ridiculous all this is-”

“Given all that’s happened.” he finished for her.

“Yes. And given who you are and who I am.”

“No. It’s got nothing to do with you and I, the fault lies with our families. You said yourself that you don’t believe the legend of the pearls. Neither do I.”

“Very well, I’ll agree with you there.” Catherine conceded, “But our families are an important part of us and a huge influence on our lives, so I really don’t know how you can even consider courting me, let alone imagine any sort of future for us. And I wish to make it clear that I’m speaking hypothetically, before you get your hopes up.”

“Understood.” Robin chuckled, “Look, if the idea of courting is disagreeable then that’s fine, I won’t push you. I can be patient and wait. Or if you prefer, we don’t have to talk about it ever again. But I would like to talk to _you_ again. If you’ll permit it.”

“I...” Catherine shook her head in frustration, “I still don’t understand. Why the sudden change of heart?”

They were nearing the gates to the Merryweather estate so Robin stopped, taking his hat off and running his hand through his brown curls with a sigh, “One day it’s just going to be you and me left. Have you thought about that?”

Catherine shrugged.

“It’s true. It may take a long time, but one day we’ll be the heads of our families.” Robin stepped in closer, he stared straight into her eyes and said in a voice which was completely serious, “I don’t want to be an old man who spends his life hating a thing he’s never known, just because the people who came before him told him to.”

This statement struck Catherine, made her shiver. She didn’t quite know how to respond, but in that moment she agreed with Robin de Noir completely.

Incensed, Robin continued speaking, “We could do it, you know. We could be the ones to end this stupid feud. You and I.”

 “You really think so? It has gone on for centuries, after all.”

“Ah, but remember: when we’re old and in charge, our families will have to listen to us.” he grinned.

Catherine actually laughed at this, “I think you’re an optimist. Or mad. Or both! A mad optimist!”

Robin wasn’t at all offended, “A mad optimist.” he agreed, nodding sagely, “Would you like to be a mad optimist with me?”

Catherine smiled but did not respond, walking instead to the gate and inserting the key.

“May I at least speak with you again, Lady Merryweather?” he called after her.

After a moment of thought, she turned the key and glanced back, “You may, Mister de Noir.”


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Catherine found a routine over the coming month. Every Wednesday she’d drop in to read to the disagreeable Mrs. Darvill, though she took no pleasure in it (and Mrs. Darvill never seemed to either) Catherine hoped that the socialisation was doing the old woman good in some way, and besides, the tea that she took with her sister Miss Darlyshire afterwards was always pleasant, the other woman being her older sister’s complete opposite in every way. With Mister Hadaway still in London she and Josiah Flitch (who was mostly entertaining, if a little grating at times) were able to spend two Fridays continuing the Herculean task of sorting the solicitor’s offices, they were close to finishing when Josiah informed her that he would be locking up the offices and travelling to London immediately, having been summoned by Mister Hadaway to aid him in the exceedingly lengthy inheritance dispute. Sundays were, of course, for church but Catherine also saw Old Parson on Thursdays when they would take tea and she would then spend the rest of the afternoon with the children in the Church; she quickly came to dote on every one and would often pop in to see them on any other day she was free, much to their delight. Some days she’d call on Evie Fletcher and they’d walk around the village together or drop in to The Lion and Unicorn for lemonade and a chat with Roger Norton, occasionally Evie would take her to call on her mother-in-law Mrs. Fletcher, these were always subdued visits but Catherine hoped nevertheless that her friendship temporarily distracted them from their worries about poor Freddie Fletcher’s fate. Other days she’d take walks throughout the surrounding countryside (always to the south away from the woods where the threat of lurking De Noirs constantly loomed), thus she came to know the local farmers and their families who always welcomed her as if she were their own kin, most of the children she had already been acquainted with from the Church. And throughout these days there was one almost constant fixture: Robin de Noir.

He had the almost uncanny knack of always being able to find her, no matter where she had strayed. At first their encounters were stilted and awkward, the subject of his attraction going unspoken and yet always lingering, gradually though they began to relax as they came to know one another better and so Robin’s visits became more and more frequent. In truth, Catherine came to look forward to them, waking up every morning wondering if she would see him that day and what they would talk about. And talk they would, chattering excitedly and almost incessantly for, as they quickly discovered, they had a great deal of common interests; they spoke of literature for one was just as avid a reader as the other, and gradually books began to be loaned back and forth;  they both had a great desire to travel and see the world, Robin turned out to be slightly more worldly, having visited relatives in Ireland and France often while growing up, but he had never been to London so Catherine could talk to him at length about that great melting pot of cities; he was delighted to learn that she could speak French fluently and they took to playfully conversing in that language; Catherine could play the piano with great proficiency and, although Robin could play no instruments, he encouraged her to talk at length about her passion for music (he especially enjoyed it when she’d lose herself in her enthusiasm and unconsciously begin to make the movements in midair, her pretty hands flitting to and fro) and made her promise to one day smuggle him in to Moonacre so that he could hear her play for real on the piano there. They rarely spoke of family, though, it being too sensitive a topic for two young people who were supposed to be sworn mortal enemies.

Although Robin did not see her every day, he slipped in and out of her life as smoothly as a puff of smoke, when he was there his presence seemed completely natural, almost inevitable, like he was a dear friend from childhood recently reunited with her, and Catherine found herself thinking fondly of the young De Noir.

Now, as they strolled leisurely along a leafy country lane, Catherine smiled, watching him gesticulate excitedly as he told her about the upcoming Midsummer fair in the town of Bartleby, of how every year he would dress down in inconspicuous clothes, rather than the dark and forbidding garments favoured by his clan, and sneak off to the fair for the day, relishing in the anonymity of a larger town where nobody judged or feared him for the deeds of his family.

“It does sound wonderful.” Catherine smiled, “You’re just as enthusiastic as the children in the Church when they first mentioned the fair to me.”

Robin laughed, “Well, it is a very big thing in these parts. A whole day to make merry, to drink and feast and dance.”

“It will be an especially good day for me, Midsummer falls on my birthday this year. It’ll feel like all the world is celebrating it with me!”

“Your birthday is the 24th June?”

“Yes.”

Robin hummed thoughtfully at this new piece of information and they fell into a comfortable silence, content to walk side-by-side enjoying the sunshine and birdsong.

“Miss Merryweather.” he blurted, abruptly coming to a stop.

This gave Catherine pause, he only ever called her Miss Merryweather when he was about to say something of the upmost seriousness. Indeed, Robin looked terribly nervous, gazing at her intently, his hands fidgeting. She nodded for him to proceed.

Robin took off his hat and held it in his hands, licked his lips once and then said slowly, with great gravity, “Miss Merryweather, might I have the pleasure of your company as your escort to the Bartleby fair?”

The sudden relief made Catherine laugh as the tension left her body, “Robin de Noir, I thought you were going to say something terrible! Yes, of course I shall go with you to the fair, but only if you promise not to frighten me ever again with your formality!”

Robin’s face was a picture of elation, his cheeks a little pink, “I promise.” he said softly. Then, suddenly, he leant forward and placed a gentle chaste kiss upon Catherine’s cheek. Catherine was quite speechless.

“Forgive me.” he said immediately, replacing his hat, “Only you made me so happy just now, I couldn’t help myself.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Catherine murmured, quite sure that her cheeks were just as pink as his.

Robin grinned and offered her his arm, “Shall I escort you back to the Manor, then?”

They were almost at the gates to the estate and Catherine was just finishing telling Robin about the elephants she saw once at London Zoo when he suddenly disappeared. Utterly confused, Catherine stood looking around her but she could see neither hide nor hair of him, like he had just melted in amongst the hedgerow, then she saw the reason for his sudden disappearance: up ahead, just pulling the gate shut behind him was Doctor Perrins.

Catherine, all at once worried, hurried towards him, “Good day, Doctor Perrins! Has someone taken ill? Is my brother well?”

The Doctor swung quickly around to face her and fixed her with such a fearful expression that it made Catherine stop in her tracks, quite taken aback.

“My lady.” he stared at her uncomprehendingly for a second and then seemed to realise what she had just said, “Nothing to worry about, Sir Benjamin is in perfect health.”

“Then what of Digweed or Marmaduke Scarlet?”

“I can assure you, madam, that nothing is amiss, I merely called to discuss some business with your brother.” Catherine noticed that the Doctor’s face seemed to be a good deal redder than his usual pink complexion.

There was a brief moment of silence and then the Doctor spoke quite suddenly, loudly, “Well, I must be off! I have patients to attend to. Lady Merryweather it has been a pleasure, an absolute pleasure!” he prattled without stopping for breath, and then, after bowing hurriedly, he took off practically running down the lane, leaving Catherine staring after him bemusedly.

All at once, Robin was at her side again, “That is one strange bird.” he observed.

“I think he just feels a little awkward. I can’t imagine why though, we have met twice before _and_ he cared for me when I took sick. You don’t think he saw us together, do you?”

“I really don’t think so. I hid myself very quickly.” Robin shrugged.

They bade one another farewell and Catherine returned to the Manor, where she found Benjamin in an extremely agitated state, pacing beside the fireplace in the Entrance Hall.

“What on Earth did you say to Doctor Perrins?” she asked him, “He was so nervous and flustered when I met him at the gate!”

Benjamin looked affronted, “Why do you assume that _I_ spoke to him unkindly?”

“Because I know very well how intimidating you can be.” Catherine said flatly, rolling her eyes, “So, tell me then, what business did he come to talk to you about?”

Benjamin was silent for a long time, standing with one arm upon the fireplace, staring down into the flames. Finally he turned to face her, “He came to speak to me about you, actually.”

“ _Me?_ What on Earth...Whatever for?”

The corners of Benjamin’s mouth were twitching, Catherine could tell from experience that he was trying very hard to suppress a smile, “He came to ask for my permission to court you.”

“What?” Catherine said sharply. So that was why the awkward Doctor had been so very skittish while he was talking to her!

“Because father is dead and George, as the eldest, is not here, I am your guardian and the head of the Merryweather estate. Doctor Perris was doing the proper thing by asking my permission to court my younger sister who, by law, I am responsible for the wellbeing of.”

“This is ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!” Catherine raged, “I’m eighteen years old and he’s... _so much older_!”

“I’m given to understand that he is thirty-three.” Benjamin said, coughing to cover up a sudden laugh, “And really Catherine, a lot of girls are already married at your age. Mother certainly was.”

Catherine fixed him with a contemptuous look, “He’s not much older than you yourself! It’d be like me marrying you! How can you possibly stand for that? What an awful brother you are! You’re doing a terrible job of being my _guardian_ if you’re just going to give me away to the first man that comes knocking! I think you’re eager to be rid of me! I shan’t accept this, you know, I hope you understand that!”

Benjamin was openly laughing now, “Oh, Catherine, _of course_ I understand. I have known you all your life, so truly I am well aware of what a fierce and independent creature you are. I’ve hardly given him your hand in marriage! I simply told him that it is up to _you_ whether he may court you.” he settled himself in his armchair by the fireplace and reached for a newspaper, “Only do one thing, dear sister, _for me_ : for heaven’s sake let him down gently. The man is still our Doctor, Lord knows what potions he might mix up as means for revenge!” Benjamin chuckled again at his own joke.

“Laugh all you want, Benjamin Merryweather, _I_ am not amused in the slightest!” Catherine flopped down into the armchair opposite, “What could have possessed him to ask? I hardly know him! I’ve only met him all of three times, and on _one_ of those occasions I wasn’t even conscious!”

Behind his newspaper, Benjamin snorted again with laughter, “Well, you are the most eligible girl in the county.”

“That’s it!” Catherine cried, leaping to her feet, “He only wants to marry me for my fortune and good name! Why is it all about money and power with you men? When a girl comes of age she must be married off as soon as possible so that she can be put to good use for a man, because _heaven forbid_ a girl end up on the wrong side of twenty without a husband! Look at yourself! _You_ never married! But that’s perfectly natural, isn’t it? Men can stay bachelors their whole lives if they so choose because they have the luxury of _choice_.”

And with that, Catherine flounced upstairs to her room, muttering to herself all the way, cursing the day that Doctor Perrins had ever been born. Had she turned and looked back, she would not have seen the tragically pained expression on her brother’s handsome face, for he hid it so well behind the newspaper.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Robin walked back to Castle de Noir with the feeling that he might explode with happiness, and a smile on his face that, try as he might, he could not suppress. He didn’t know how or why, but somehow Catherine had this effect on him; when he was around her he felt so completely comfortable in his own skin, like he could truly be himself and not fear any judgement. It occurred to him that the last time he felt this way was probably in the company of his sister, Loveday.

Robin had only been a small boy when their mother had passed away and it fell to Loveday Minette, who was eleven years older, to care for him. His sister was a sweet young woman, taking after their mother with her kindly nature and exquisite good looks, and together the siblings would spend most days with their aging grandmother in her tower bedroom, helping her with her knitting when her sight began to fail, taking turns to read aloud from books, or just talking together, the three of them laughing loud and often. The two women came to have such a profound influence on Robin that when he became a teenager his own father began criticising him frequently and in public, dubbing him weak-willed and too sensitive. The humiliation had been overwhelming and Robin had taken to spending more time with the other boys of his age and rank in the clan: Richard, David, and Henry. But the damage was already done, for Robin still found it difficult to fit in and it seemed like nothing he did was enough to make his father proud, the public dressing-downs becoming more frequent and peppered with the occasional physical punishment.

His sister had left home abruptly five years ago, without an explanation and barely a farewell, and since then, despite being with the other boys every day, Robin had not realised how truly starved of company and conversation he was, that is until he met Catherine. While initially his intentions behind cultivating a relationship with her were with the true aim of finding the Moon Pearls, Robin hadn’t been lying when he said that he didn’t actually believe in the legend, but his entire family did and he so desperately wanted to make them proud and to earn his father’s approval. Nevertheless, despite his ulterior motive, he felt himself irresistibly enjoying every moment of Catherine’s company; with her he felt like he could open his heart and let all of his true passions, emotions, and anxieties come spilling forth, and receive the exact same trust in return. He felt shy around her, to be sure, for he had grown to like her so very much, but he did not feel ashamed of this as his father would have made him feel, believing that a De Noir heir should have the boldness to take _what_ he wanted, _when_ he wanted.

Upon returning to the castle, Robin passed through the kitchen, a hive of activity as the cooks and scullery maids prepared dinner for the entire De Noir clan and servants. Amidst all the hustle and bustle he went unnoticed as he swiped a pasty and an apple to tide him over until the evening meal, thus he overheard the conversation of two teenage pot washers, standing with their arms in sudsy water up to their elbows.

“Cook went her ends when she heard the news.” the first girl, a plump brunette said.

“I don’t blame her.” responded the other, a blonde a couple of years older, “As if we don’t have enough work to do without extra mouths to feed.”

“And it’s never just the family, mind you. They bring all of their men and servants too.”

“Exactly. But look on the bright side, it’ll be nice to have some new boys about the place for a couple of weeks, won’t it?”

The girls descended into a fit of giggles and Robin, who had no interest in such fickle girlish gossip, continued on up to his room.

He settled in the armchair next to the fireplace to read a book of poetry which Catherine had lent him the other day. Robin usually favoured novels and had openly admitted that he had no education in poetry, so Catherine, blessed with an education _and_ an ardent love of the stuff, had lent him a copy of Shelley’s work to start him off. So far he had enjoyed what he had read but right now he struggled to concentrate on the verses because his thoughts kept slipping away to contemplate other things; this was _Catherine’s_ book. How many times had she had held it in those fair, elegant hands and leafed through its pages? Which poems were her favourite? Which had she lingered over again and again because the words held some secret special meaning to her? Some of the poems were quite romantic, and he found himself rereading one in particular. There was a crease in the corner of the page where it had been folded over, had it been an accident or did Catherine enjoy this poem too and had marked it out to return to?

_See the mountains kiss high heaven_

_And the waves clasp one another;_

_No sister-flower would be forgiven_

_If it disdained its brother;_

_And the sunlight clasps the earth_

_And the moonbeams kiss the sea:_

_What is all this sweet work worth_

_If thou kiss not me?_

All thoughts of poetry aside, he returned again to their conversation earlier; Robin was elated at the prospect of spending a day at the fair with Catherine, that instead of hiding their friendship like some clandestine shameful thing in the lanes and fields surrounding Silverydew, they could be out in public together like regular young people. Also the knowledge that Catherine’s birthday was the same day excited him and made him want to take action, a day out together just didn’t seem enough, he wanted to give something to her alone but struggled to think of anything he could provide which would be worthy of such a fine noble young lady.

A knock at the door startled him out of his reverie. Robin snapped the book (hitherto forgotten on his lap) shut and went to open the door. Outside he found the maid Rosie, smiling coquettishly up at him.

“Sorry to disturb you, Master Robin, but your grandmother has requested you go see her.”

Robin smiled fondly to himself, his grandmother never requested anything, she gave her orders and expected them to be obeyed immediately.

“Thank you, Rosie, I shall go right now.”

“Also, I was in earlier changing your bed sheets and I noticed that you’re running low on candles so I brought you these.”  Rosie held out a handful of six white candles tied together with a piece of string.

“Thank you, that’s very considerate.” Robin said, reaching to take them.

“Anything for you, Master Robin.” Rosie responded, her smile widening as she allowed their fingers to brush.

“Yes...well...thank you, again.” Robin muttered awkwardly, quickly stepping back into the room and swinging the door shut without preamble.  As he went to place the candles on his bedside table, a thought occurred to him quite suddenly, and he stared down at them in wonder for a second then quickly ran to catch up with her.

“Rosie! Wait a minute!”

The serving maid was halfway down the tower stairs but had stopped and turned to look back when he called.

“Those candles you bring me, where do they come from?” Robin questioned.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Master Robin.” the girl giggled confusedly.

“In the castle, where are they stored?”

“Why, in the store cupboards near the kitchens, of course!”

“Brilliant, thanks! Excuse me!” Robin said, squeezing past her and heading to his grandmother’s tower.

Despite the warmth of the day outside, the fire in his grandmother’s room was built up and she sat beside it with a blanket over her lap. She frequently complained that old age made the body feel the cold more, and maintained that the warmth eased the pain of her arthritis.

“You summoned me, grandmo- Oh. Father. I didn’t realise you’d be here too.” Indeed, Coeur de Noir was standing on the side of the room furthest from the roaring fire, his black robes making him almost indistinguishable from the shadows, so Robin had initially quite overlooked him when he bounded into the room.

Coeur de Noir regarded his son with narrowed eyes, trying to find some perceived slight in what he had just said. However, any potential argument was interrupted by Robin’s grandmother speaking.

“Robin, my dear! Have you heard the news? We are to receive some guests soon!”

Immediately Robin’s stomach began to churn, Castle de Noir only ever received one type of guest: other De Noirs. The question was, were they relatives from Ireland or France? If they were the latter then Robin could cease his worrying immediately, he got on very well with the French branch of the clan, but the Irish were another matter entirely.

“Yes, and I thought it necessary to have a talk with you about your behaviour before they arrive.” Coeur de Noir stated, walking forward to stand by his mother’s chair.

Ah. So _that’s_ why Robin’s grandmother had sent for him: to actually get him in the same room as his father for once. Robin couldn’t help but send a wounded look in her direction, despite knowing very well that she couldn’t see it.

“Although, what boy of eighteen needs to be coached by his father on how to behave, I do not-”

“Roland.” his mother chided.

Robin’s father took a breath to calm himself. Even he, Coeur de Noir, head of the clan, indomitable and proud, bowed before his mother’s iron will.

When he resumed speaking, his voice was calm but steely, “There has always been trouble amongst you boys. At first we all put it down to youthful exuberance, ‘boys will be boys’ and all that.  But you’re old enough now to know better, Robin. Two years ago when we last visited our cousins in Ireland you embarrassed our whole family with your appalling behaviour, so unbecoming of a guest. So I am warning you now, boy: I will not be shamed on our own land. Any conflict you create will be punished, do you understand?”

Robin was indignant, and the words came forth before he could stop himself, “ _Youthful exuberance? ‘Boys will be boys’?_ Father, are you _serious_? All my life, Michaelis-”

“Enough!” Robin’s father thundered, “I do not invite conversation or debate! I expect you to obey! Now, say you understand!”

“I understand, father.” Robin muttered, hanging his head.

With one final glare, Robin’s father shouldered past him and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Robin’s grandmother sighed and resumed her knitting, for several minutes the only sound in the room was the rhythmic clicking of her needles.

“I don’t start fights.” Robin finally said forcefully.

“Oh, Robin.” his grandmother murmured, reaching out unseeingly towards him. Robin stepped forward and clasped her hand in his, “This I know. All these years, _that boy_ has been more trouble than he is worth.” she continued bitterly. For as long as he could remember, Robin’s grandmother had referred to his cousin as _that boy_ , as if speaking the Irish bastard’s very name was beneath her.

She reached up and cupped his cheek, wiping away the wetness she found there, “Sweet boy. It’s only three weeks. You’ll survive.”


End file.
